The Last Red Shoulder
by Gunlord500
Summary: Sidestory to "Wayward Son." How did the Western Isles become colonies to Etruria in the first place? A year after the war with Bern, Roy poses this question to Elphin, and receives an answer he never expected...and could not even imagine.
1. Beginning of a Tale Untold

X-X-X-Author's notes, READ THIS FIRST-X-X-X

Hey, everybody! Welcome to Gunlord's newest multi-chapter fic, _The Last Red Shoulder_. Before we start, though, I gotta give you some disclaimers which are very important, so please read this!

A: This is a sidestory to my main fic, _Wayward Son_. It takes place just after the conclusion to the main plot of the first 40 chappies, where the Big Bad (such as he was) is defeated. So, this is very important, THERE ARE HUGE SPOILERS FOR WAYWARD SON! If you've already read it, that's great, if you don't want to read it and don't care about it, you probably don't care about getting spoiled, so feel free to read this. Though if you don't like WS you almost certainly won't like this either, and indeed, this story isn't really stand-alone; it will make almost no sense if you haven't read _Wayward Son._ But if you haven't read WS and care about spoilers, please turn back now!

B: This story will likely be even darker than _Wayward Son_, which wasn't exactly fun times to begin with! It will definitely earn its M rating, so if you're too young to be reading this, pleeeeease turn back now. There'll be a lot of violence and perhaps some sex in future chapters. Please don't read if you're not old enough for that sort of thing. Also, just as a random note, virtually the entire cast is OCs. Aside from the introduction, and maybe a lil sumthin else, every character here is my own creation, since this story takes place in the early 700s, 300 years before FE7 and 6 (980 and 1000 A.S). I'll explain why that is later.

C: While I'm sure most of the folks reading this will be fans of _Wayward Son_ or my friends, just in case I attract any unfriendly attention: This fic was designed to fill in a hole/tie up some loose ends at the conclusion of the first half of Wayward Son. Yes, yes, I know many people around here loath original characters, or at least OC centric stories, which this obviously is. I'm not writing this to anger you or any faction/group/clique (whichever word you prefer, any are accurate) you're a part of. I had a whole bunch of notes I didn't end up using and didn't want them to go to waste, so I turned them into this fic. This fic will certainly be muuuuch shorter than Wayward Son, which is coming along well. In fact, I actually don't intend to stay in the FE fandom indefinitely, there are only a few more pieces I wanna publish before moving on:

1: Wayward Son (making very good progress on this, should be done by the middle of next year, or in early 2015 AT THE LATEST)

2: Finish up "A Puppet's History." I hate leaving things undone.

3: There's a short FE4 thing I have notes for and want to finish. I can do that whenever, itll take me a week to put it out. 5 chapters at most, prolly a one shot.

4: _The Last Red Shoulder_, which you're reading now and will hopefully stop reading by the end of this disclaimer.

5: A followup to _The Last Red Shoulder_ featuring one of the side characters, which will also be shorter.

6: MAYBE a fun Archanea multi-chapter fic, but that's only for me to blow off steam if I want it.

7: Any small assorted requests and one-shots I have to do for Secret Santa or what have you.

There you have it. The only really big thing in this list is Wayward Son, I should be able to finish everything else within a year and a half AT MOST. It ought to be very easy for you to just ignore those fics and leave me in peace. Additionally, any of my (self-proclaimed, since this sort of stuff isn't fit for me to take seriously) e-nemies who want me to GTFO Fire Emblem can take solace in knowing I'll be outta here in no more than 2 years, probably less. I leave you alone, please leave me alone.

4: Phew! Sorry for that weird-ass disclaimer, brothers and sisters. I'll probably be putting it up on all the fics I publish from here on out. But yeah, it's true, these are pretty much the last few stories I'm gonna put up in the Fire Emblem section. Again, aside from requests, I think they encapsulate pretty much everything I want to say and do as a _Fire Emblem_ writer. But enough about that, lemme tell you about _TLRS!_ First off, the name (and the image) comes from an _Armored Trooper VOTOMS_ OVA xD More importantly, and spoilers for those who haven't finished Wayward Son, in chapter 38 Paptimus mentions his defeated rebel forces, most notably his elite Red Shoulders, are fleeing to the Western Isles. Originally, there was supposed to be a whole nother plot arc where Renault and his comrades pursued Paptimus all through the Western Isles, and Braddock would actually die at chapter 60, during a battle at Mount Ebrakhm. I thought the fic was going on too long so I cut out a LOT of stuff to have the 'finale' of book I be at chapter 40 instead. But as I said above, I still had a lot of notes for those 20 cut chapters, and more importantly, I'm sure my readers were all wondering what happened to those Red Shoulders anyway. After all, as we know, the Isles are solidly in Etrurian hands by the time of FE6. How'd they get there? Well, now you'll finally get to hear of a tale which has been too long untold. Read on, my friends, read on…

**The Last Red Shoulder**

Chapter 1: Beginning of a Tale Untold

_1001 years after the Scouring…_

The courtyard of Castle Pherae was truly a lovely place, especially on a summer afternoon such as this. While the strong stone walls overhead would ward off invaders quite well in times of war, the interior itself was unmistakably possessed of a beauty to be enjoyed in peace. Tall, healthy oaks provided shade when necessary and nesting places for birds constantly, providing an avian symphony which made music far superior to the songs of even the greatest Bards. The soft green grass below them was dotted with patches of blue, purple, and gold—many different species of flower which had been permitted to seed where the wind took them, providing an effect which exceeded any design a human gardener could have come up with. A series of stone benches had been installed all around this scenic courtyard specifically so the lords of the castle (and their visitors) could enjoy the delights Lycia's climate afforded. And indeed, this was precisely what two young men sitting on the easternmost bench were doing right now.

The red-haired youth smiled at his taller, slightly older, and much paler blond-haired companion sitting to his left. "That's a very nice song, Elphin. Did you compose it yourself?"

Elphin smiled back. "You flatter me, Roy. I may be a good singer, but my skills as a composer leave something to be desired. No, that song has been very popular in my country for nearly three hundred years now. I'm not sure who first sang it—Liam of Caerleon, likely—but there's a reason it's survived for so long."

"Definitely. What a catchy tune! Just the sort of thing I needed today." Roy was not exaggerating. Though he was well-suited to the duties expected of an heir to a Lycian canton (and the great hero of an entire continent), even he couldn't deal with affairs of state indefinitely. Thus, he had decided to take the afternoon off. When he'd heard that a certain Etrurian Bard was visiting his hometown for a short while, he knew that he'd be able to have an even easier time relaxing with the musician's company, especially since they could finally enjoy a bit of friendly conversation together. They'd never had a chance for that while the war was going on. "Elphin—er, Mildain, do you think you could play it again?"

His friend laughed. "I'd be happy to—under one condition."

"What is it?"

"Call me Elphin. My father and the people of Etruria know I'm alive, and setting their hearts at ease is good enough for me. At the moment, though, I think I prefer being a Bard to a Prince."

"Alright, I understand…Elphin."

The Bard smiled…then fulfilled his friend's request. He picked up the small but exquisitely-crafted harp he had set on the bench next to him and began to play it with a master's skill. The tune of the song was quick, hearty, and upbeat, well suited to the tale of heroic deeds his sweet, lilting voice proceeded to recount:

"_There once was a man of spirit unmatched _

_His heart, brave and bold_

_The betrayers plotted, the sorcerers cursed,_

_But ever did his courage hold._

_From Caerleon he hailed, to Great Galahad he bowed,_

_For crushing the shadows he could be forever proud._

_But good is ever allowed little rest-_

_The shadow still lived, fled to the West._

_On the Isles would Khyron remain_

'_till Peace and Justice began their reign."_

With a deep breath, Elphin laid down his harp and again smiled at Roy, who was clapping cheerfully with an equally pleased expression on his face.

"Great singing, Elphin. Boy, if I had a voice half as good as yours, Lilina would be a much happier woman…"

The Bard couldn't help but laugh at this. "Well, Lord Roy, I'm sure your other qualities keep her very satisfied."

"You could say that." The two of them shared a good-natured chuckle. "Still," Roy continued, his smile turning to a more pensive expression, "Lord Khyron was a great man, wasn't he? If he had only been allowed to accomplish more in the Western Isles while he had the chance, I wonder if you and I might have been spared all the trouble we went through over there."

"Indeed," replied Elphin, unable to hide his slight surprise. "You are familiar with Khyron's exploits?"

"Yes. General Cecilia briefed me on the history of Etruria and the Western Isles before our expedition began."

"Really? Well then, what can you tell me about the subject? Show me you've taken my Mage General's lessons to heart!"

"Hey, I thought I was supposed to be relaxing! But alright, I'll humor you. Consider it your payment for those songs, Mr. Wandering Minstrel!

"Just about three hundred years ago, during the reign of Galahad the Weak, there was a great uprising in Etruria. Galahad's prime minister, a man named Paptimus of Scirocco, managed to amass a "Revolutionary Army" of hired mercenaries and dark magic users right under the King's nose, then led about a third of Etruria's people, especially those in the north, in open rebellion. He slew the Mage General, Exedol of Caerleon, in single combat and managed to capture almost all of Etruria before being stopped at the very gates of the Holy Royal Palace in Aquleia.

"The King's forces had been saved by the timely intervention of a foreigner—a Lycian—with an almost superhuman aptitude for tactics and strategy. This man, Henken, was titled "Great General" and won victory after victory against the Rebel forces, managing to push them back almost all the way to where they had started. But at the very height of his success, Paptimus assassinated him.

"It seemed as if all was lost for the King's men—but three heroes rose up to take the Lycian's place. The first was an old Cavalier named Gafgarion, unequalled in his command of mounted troops. The second was a steel-hearted Knight named Jerid, who had been Henken's right hand. And the last was Exedol's younger brother—Khyron of Caerleon. These three men became the Knight General, Great General, and Mage General of Aquleia, thus setting the foundation for Etruria's military and political structure which lasted until the Great Movement of Bern. Never again would so much power be concentrated in a single Prime Minister—his voice would always be weighed against those of the Three Generals." Roy's face grew somber. "At least, that was how it was supposed to work. It didn't stop Arcard and Roartz, though."

"Indeed," said Elphin quietly.

"But where was I? Anyways, these three men managed to rally their troops and finish what Henken had started. Fighting with all their strength, they managed to capture the last Rebel stronghold and kill Paptimus by the end of the year 703. And so the First Civil War came to an end, and Etruria knew lasting peace and prosperity until its Second Civil War just a few years ago, during Bern's war of aggression."

"Exactly right, Roy. Paptimus and his dark magicians were the "betrayers" and "sorcerers" the song mentioned. But it mentions the Western Isles, too. What do you know of that history?"

"Well…from what Cecilia told me, and from what I've read, it seems that even though the rebellion was over, not all the rebels were dead. Before he died, Paptimus had his most elite and loyal soldiers, called the Red Shoulders for their black armor and red pauldrons, flee from Etruria to the Western Isles so they could continue the fight. The Three Generals knew that they couldn't allow those villains to simply do as they pleased—but they also had to deal with rebuilding their own country; much of Etruria had been demolished by the war. So Great General Jerid stayed on the mainland to oversee reconstruction, while Khyron and Gafgarion's successor, a brave and spirited young knight named Wayland, were sent to the Western Isles in order to bring the remaining rebels to justice.

"There…" Roy's face scrunched up in a bit of confusion. "Well, Cecilia didn't really go into much detail. She just told me the basics. The Red Shoulders were commanded by two men named Oldnar and Trunicht, and allied with Bern, who wanted to colonize the Western Isles and take their mineral resources before Etruria could. However, Oldnar and Trunicht betrayed the Red Shoulders and revealed all of their hiding places and battle plans to Khyron, allowing him to sunder their alliance with Bern, liberate the clans of the Isles from their grasp, and exterminate them down to the very last man. That last Red Shoulder tried to unleash a horrible curse which would have ended all life on Elibe, but Khyron, wielding the Forblaze tome and assisted by Wayland and the Church of Elimine, managed to stop him at Mount Ebrakhm. This was how the Isles came under Etrurian control, and why Khyron and Wayland are known as heroes all over Elibe."

Elphin nodded. "Very good, Lord Roy. You are a most astute student. I'll be sure to tell Cecilia of this the next time I see her. She'll be very pleased."

"Really? I'm glad to hear that."

"Yes indeed. You've learned what the history books teach very well." Strangely enough, however, his expression became dark rather than cheerful. "You also know, of course, that what's written in the books isn't necessarily the whole truth…"

"Huh?"

"What you read…and what Cecilia told you…isn't entirely accurate."

"Elphin, what do you mean? Why would Cecilia…"

"It wasn't due to malice, Roy. She believed everything she taught you. Back during the war, I would have told you the same thing. None of us knew any better. Here, let me ask you a question. How do we know what we do about the struggle for the Western Isles…the War in the Mist, as they called it?"

"That…that's a good question. I know that Khyron and Wayland never published any memoirs about their experiences there, even though that's how they earned their fame. The best history of that era was written by a wandering preacher…I think his name was Serapino. I picked it up last year, actually—I wanted to learn more about the land I'd fought so hard to free. I remember it had a very strange dedication. "_For the people of Etruria, for the people of the Western Isles, and for all the heroes and victims with whom this truth is buried._" That's what it said."

"I never knew what those words meant until last year," said the prince. "But now…now I think I understand."

"I want to understand them too, Elphin."

"The Holy Royal Palace of Etruria has a great library, Lord Roy. You can find almost any book which has ever been published anywhere on Elibe in there. But there's a small room in the lowest floor—very easy to miss. The guards there won't let anyone in unless they're a member of the Royal Family. Not even the Three Generals are allowed to enter.

"Before I revealed myself to the public three months after the war, I visited that library on a whim, in secret. And there I found four interesting books.

"The first was Khyron Caerleon's personal deposition of everything that had happened on the Western Isles—eight hundred pages long, all hand-written.

"The second was an old journal taken from Lord Murdock's personal library when our forces ransacked Castle Bern. It was the three-hundred-year old personal journal of one of his predecessors—the Wyvern General Zedal Gustav, who took the position in 703 and served till he died in the Isles.

"The third was the journal of one of the most influential holy men who ever lived—Archbishop Gosterro, who was the head of the Supreme Church and leader of Eliminism during the First Civil War.

"And lastly…the forth book was the personal journal of a man named Kain."

"Kain? I remember that name…" A spark of recognition lit in Roy's eyes. "That was the name of the last Red Shoulder Khyron fought!"

"You are correct."

Elphin turned to look at Roy face-to-face, his eyes wide open for the first time the Pheraen could remember. "Let me tell you what that journal contained, Roy. Let me tell you what truly happened in the Western Isles, three hundred years ago. And then…then you'll finally understand the true depth of my country's sins."

Roy definitely wasn't expecting this. But he didn't back down from Elphin's challenge, either. With the same determination in his blue eyes he'd shown all throughout the Great Movement of Bern, he simply nodded for Elphin to begin his tale.

And so he did.

_::Linear Notes::_

Hope this gotcha imterested, my friends! Just as a note, Kain is completely unrelated to the Archanean character, I just like the name. You'll learn more about him, Gustav, and Oldnar in future chapters :D


	2. The New Wyvern General

**The Last Red Shoulder**

Chapter 2: The New Wyvern General

_15__th__ Pegasus, 703_

_Personal Notebook of Zedal Gustav_

_DAMNATION what a boring ceremony. Did Vyrleena have to wait through all that ridiculous pomp and ceremony when she got this job? If she really died at Aquleia I suppose she doesn't have anything to worry about, now. In any case, what happened afterwards was really the important thing. I'd best record the orders I received…_

Zedal Gustav had any number of reasons to be full of himself, but he didn't let his new position get to his head. He knew that it was only the failure of his predecessor, Lady Vyrleena, which allowed him to take the title of Wyvern General, and he was also quite aware that if he failed as she had, he would lose everything—including his life—as well.

Of course, that ridiculous ceremony which had wasted literally all day did little to ground him. Pointlessly lining up an entire brigade of Wyvern Knights and their mounts, a foppish herald standing before King Arbain to read off a list of accomplishments everyone already knew, the King himself giving a perfunctory speech even he didn't much care about, followed by a "feast" in which Gustav had to pretend not to be bored by a seemingly endless succession of nobles sucking up to him…definitely not his idea of time well spent.

Thankfully, though, it had ended. And now, marching up to the royal council chamber where he knew his King would be waiting, Zedal could actually do something useful.

As was common for Bernese architecture, neither the door nor the stairway leading up to it was particularly ostentatious; simple stone and wood all the way. It quite suited Zedal's sensitivities, for his sturdy, six-foot frame was clad in the ceremonial riding armor he had not yet taken off. That armor, despite its name, was far more functional than decorative; only the gilding on its pauldrons indicated it did not ordinarily see battle. He wore neither helmet nor crown, and thus brushed a few stray locks of his shoulder-length purple hair away from his face before entering the room.

Seated at the large wooden table in front of him were three men—other than him, the most powerful in Bern. First was King Arbain himself. He was middle-aged, but looked and was quite strong; his purple eyes rested under short pale blond hair and over a goatee of the same color, neither of which had begun to grey. Next to him were seated the other Wyvern Generals. A man in Sage's vestment sat to the King's left. Lord Olaf Landskrom pursed his lips in a way which made him seem amused at his new colleague as he twisted a lock of his long teal hair in his fingers. To Arbain's right sat Wyvern General Gilbert Kynes, his silver eyes, hair, and beard making him look much older than he actually was. He regarded Zedal's entry with the same bored, impassive expression he seemed to give to everything.

Arbain, however, was more than pleased to see his new man. "Sit down, Gustav," he motioned to the chair at the far side of the table, "there's no time for pleasantries. We've much to discuss."

"Yes, my lord." Zedal obediently did as his liege commanded. "I did not expect this promotion, but I shall do my best to live up to the gift I've been given. I have already been briefed on what happened to Vyrleena and the…weapon she was supposed to have brought to the siege of Aquleia. It didn't arrive, the Rebels failed, and she died in battle, apparently.

"If she'd met with success, perhaps our greatest rival on the continent would have collapsed, leaving Bern as the sole power on Elibe. Alas, it didn't happen, and it seems the Rebels will almost certainly lose now that their blitzkrieg has failed—they simply don't have the money to continue with the war. So what would you have us do in response, my king? Stand by and wait, and watch as Etruria crushes the rebels and restores the world to the order it has known since the Scouring?"

"Not quite," replied Olaf. "There may yet be a chance for Bern to achieve dominion over the land, even if Etruria remains standing. You know of how long we've eyed the Western Isles, yes?"

"Of course. Barely a man in Bern doesn't know of someone who was sent to the West. Unfortunately, it takes our ships nearly six months to reach them while the Etrurians can sail there in less than six weeks. It's a disgrace to see their fool king waving his islands in our faces, but it seems an indignity we'll have to bear."

"Not necessarily. With the war wreaking havoc across the mainland, Etruria has had no time to tend to its settlements on the Western Isles, and the Rebels have cut them off from Royalist reinforcements. The people themselves are rising up against the Etrurians, who will not be able to last forever. The Rebels' defeat is perhaps inevitable, but it will certainly take Galahad more than six months to crush all resistance…"

"So you're saying we can seize control of the islands in that time." Zedal finished his thoughts for him.

"Indeed," rumbled Gilbert. "Vyrleena was aware her strategem would not likely meet with success, and that rebels would probably fail as well. Therefore, Olaf and I have been crafting a backup plan. Even in its weakened state, we cannot attack Etruria directly—the Eliminean church would not allow it. Besides, it's not as if the Rebels are our allies. We're using them purely out of expedience; we know very well that the anti-monarchists would just as soon string us up as their King. But conquering the Isles while Etruria cannot contest them would give us a significant amount of leverage over them. The resources those islands are reputed to contain would be enough to nearly double our revenues, which would likely be enough to bribe Lycia out of its irksome neutrality between us and Etruria and win them entirely to our side. It may take a long time, but with the Western Isles as a support, we will be able to grind Etruria underneath us eventually."

"And I will be tasked with the subjugation of those isles."

"I give you one hundred ships and ten thousand men," said Arbain. "They are called the Goldwyrm Army. The fleet is already being massed on our western coast. You will use them to subjugate the island of Caledonia, bring its people to alliance with Bern by guile or force, and use the island as a stepping stone for the conquest of Fibernia."

Zedal said nothing for a moment, letting it sink in. Then he nodded. "I accept this quest, my liege. But as the newest Wyvern General, may I be permitted to ask something of you?"

"You may."

"Why did you choose me for this task?"

Arbain, along with the other two Generals, chuckled. "I've reviewed your combat records, Gustav," said the King. "Your skill with the lance and your talents on wyvernback are second only to Vyrleena's. More than that, you are absolutely incorruptible. For some time, my servant, Gilbert and Olaf have kept spies around you for every hour of every day. You could not so much as take a meal without being watched, and every interaction you've had with another human being was recorded.

"In all the time we have watched you, we have noted not a single dishonest word, nor a single treacherous deed. There may be other members of our military with more experience as commanders, or more skill with politics, but if we are to entrust anyone with such a large force on an errand so far from his Fatherland, we must make absolutely certain he will not betray us, and take the Isles for himself rather than Bern. We are that certain of you."

Gustav said nothing—to call the king's words a compliment would be a gross understatement, and he was quite frankly awed into silence.

"You understand the gravity of what we ask of you?"

Another moment of silence. Then he answered.

"I do, my liege. And I swear I shall not fail you."

Arbain smiled, and the other two Generals nodded. "Then take to your quarters and rest. On the morrow you and your escort will fly out to the western coast. It will take a few days of hard riding on wyvernback, and you will need all your strength for what lies ahead."

"As you command."

Zedal stood up, bowed, and turned, leaving his lord and his colleagues behind him as he exited the council chamber, stepped down the stairs, and made his way to his own quarters. There was not the slightest hesitation in his steps as he moved.

But for all his courage, despite the steadfast loyalty his king had rightfully praised, there was more than a few unvoiced doubts floating inside his head.

The Western Isles were not a happy place now. They had never been a happy place. Since the time of Durbans, and likely even before, the Isles had known nothing but endless strife. Its inhabitants had fought off every foreign army which had tried to invade, and when those had fled, had gone back to fighting each other. There was an old saying—almost like a folk tale- known all across Elibe which described it quite well:

_The Phoenix rests upon Mount Helius in the Western Isles, and there's no place in the world more fitting a home for the bird than that. The Phoenix flies across Elibe high in the skies for one hundred years, then returns to its nest on Helius to die. It burns itself out with a mighty scream, but from its ashes rises a tiny chick, who will grow to become another Phoenix in one hundred years, when it will die…and be reborn again. True or not, it's a good symbol for the Isles. Death is the only thing its people know—they die fighting invaders, or they die fighting each other, and this endless bloodshed does nothing but sharpen them, culling the weak and allowing the strong to prosper. Just as the Phoenix births itself from the ashes of its forebear, the people of the Isles rise from the corpses of their parents, forever tougher and crueler than the generation that preceded them._

The words of that story, told to him by an old soothsayer he'd met on his way to the capital, stayed with Zedal as he opened the door to his room, sat at his desk, and began to record his orders in his personal journal. He was not at all discouraged or dissuaded; whatever lay in wait for him in the Isles would never convince him to abandon his duty.

But the soothsayer's warnings would not leave his mind, and no matter how much he tried to banish it, he could not help but wonder if the Goldwyrm Army would end up as the next sea of corpses to nourish the children of the Western Isles.

_::Linear Notes::_

This chapter takes place about a week after the big battle for Aquleia in Wayward Son, chapter 25. The Phoenix makes a cameo in the future chapter of WS ;)


	3. Squad Seven

**The Last Red Shoulder**

Chapter 3: Squad Seven

_20__th__ Sage, 703_

_Entry #3_

_I know this must sound funny for a Red Shoulder—the most feared dark magician on the face of Elibe—to admit, but I can't get over this damn seasickness. I can tear apart any foe with Fenrir, I can use any staff I can get my hand on, but there's nothing I can do to quiet my stomach! If there's some magic out there that can help me, Trunicht never taught it. My friends would all laugh at me if they knew, but since this is my personal journal, none of them will ever know. I_

"Oy! Kain!"

The brown-haired Black Knight hastily put down his quill, closed the book he was scribbling in, and turned to look at his caller. It was very early in the morning, the sun had not yet risen, and his cabin was lit only by the flickering candle on his table, but he saw almost as well in the dark as in the light. In any case, he would have recognized the voice of his best friend anywhere.

A Black Knight with a Northern hayseed accent sounded no less amusing than a Black Knight with seasickness, but only a fool would doubt Leitner's skill with elder magic or his loyalty to his comrades. His brown hair—the same color as Kain's—appeared as an unruly, tangled mass and his brown eyes were half-hidden by their lids as he stood in the doorway, giving the impression he'd just been woken up, but then again, he looked like that all the time. It very well matched his personality. He took almost nothing seriously and in all the time they'd known each other, Kain had seen him get angry or even perturbed only twice. Granted, perhaps the many kills he'd scored and his almost symbiotic relationship with his horse were enough proof that he never had much to worry about, but it wasn't immediately obvious to anyone who'd just met him. Fighting alongside him for just one battle, though, was more than enough to convince anyone to look past his happy-go-lucky manner and appearance, and Kain had fought beside him in many battles.

"What's the problem, Leitner?" Kain laughed. "Lost another game of bones? I don't have enough money to pay your debts again, you know!"

"Nah, not this time. We're 'bout t' make Landfall on th' Isles! Our squad's up on deck. Leave that damn journal b'hind and join us!"

"First good news I've had in weeks," Kain sighed, and though the cheer didn't leave Leitner's face, he nodded, for he understood and felt the same way.

Neither of them thought things would turn out like this when they'd joined up with Trunicht and his Red Shoulders.

They'd been recruited before the war—the Civil War, as they knew it to be called now. Kain was a city boy unhappy with life in Thagaste as the son of an unsuccessful merchant when someone he knew—a childhood friend named Kassa, whose family had a falling out with his own over the direction they thought Etruria was going—offered him a way out. After performing an odd test on the twenty-two year old, his friend told him he had great potential, but only in a forbidden form of magic hated by the Church. That was enough to pique his interest, and he happily accepted his friend's offer. Together, they eloped out of Thagaste to Nerinheit, where Trunicht happily accepted him into the Red Shoulder battalion, where he learned, alongside his friend, to master the dark arts and the art of riding a horse. He'd met Leitner in training—about the same age as he was, but from a town called Sorveno in the north, he loved risks and new experiences, and while he was neither happy nor unhappy with the way Etruria was governed, the Red Shoulders offered him a chance to do things very few people ever had, and his affinity for weird, distrusted, and even outcast ways of life made him a good fit for the Red Shoulders…and a natural companion for Kain.

The two of them together seemed as if they could take on the world—at least at first. Their first battle at the Fortress of Spears had been one of the high points of their lives. Dispensing shadowy death from horseback, watching the arrogant nobles twist and squirm under the power of their magic…it seemed like they were invulnerable, and that Trunicht and Paptimus were the best employers in the world. When they took control of Thagaste, it seemed like they truly were untouchable, members of an elite which would soon conquer not only Etruria but all of Elibe.

Then came the Battle of Aquleia, and things went downhill after that.

Kain and Leitner had barely made it out of there alive. Only the quick thinking of Kassa, who Warped all of them away to safety, kept them from meeting the same fate as much of the rest of the Red Shoulders—burned to death on their boats, their sneak attack on Aquleia turned into a hideous trap when the Royalists set fire to their own oil-filled harbor. Losses for the Red Shoulders had been so crippling that the entire battalion had to be reorganized; no longer was it limited to only Dark magic users. Thanks to his performance at the Fortress of Spears, Kain had been given command of a squad consisting of his Black Knight and Druid friends along with a General, Sniper, Hero, and even a Bishop. It didn't do them much good, though. The 7th Squad of the 1st Platoon fought viciously at Thagaste, winning renown for slaying a hundred Royalist troops by themselves, but it still wasn't enough to save the city, and barely escaped with their lives. Following the retreat, they were prepared to give their lives in the defense of the Fortress of Spears, but Kain could see where the war was going, and he had grown too attached to his squadmates to let them die. In the chaos following the release of that strange metal monster wielding the giant blue blade, Kain ordered his squad to retreat back to Nerinheit (and saved his Sniper's life in the process).

That battle had taken place on the Fourth Sage—more than two weeks ago. They'd reached their capitol of Nerinheit just a few days later, and almost the moment they'd dragged themselves through the city gate, bedraggled, demoralized, and miserable, they were put on one of the large caravels mouldering in the harbor and shipped off to the Western Isles. Trunicht knew the war was lost, but he told them they could continue their struggle on those islands, which the Royalists had long been trying to seize for themselves.

Kain was not a foolish man—he knew the Rebels no longer had any chance of defeating their foes on the mainland. But he'd fought too hard to just abandon the Revolutionary cause, and his squad—his friends—felt the same. He hated the King and the way his country had been governed, and despite the blood on his hands—some of it children's blood—he had thoroughly convinced himself that the Royalists were worse. And thus, despite their defeat on the mainland, and even despite the rumors they'd heard that their leader Paptimus himself had been killed, they were journeying to the Western Isles, so that at least one spot on Elibe could be free from the grasping fingers of "King and Church."

And through it all, the members of Squad Seven had resolutely stood by him, offering their lives beside his own. The least he could do to repay them would be to see how they were doing on the eve of their arrival.

There was already a small crowd on deck when he and Leitner popped their heads out of the caravel's stairwell. A small one, though. The ship only carried one hundred people, and it was part of a dozen which had left the port of Nerinheit a few days ago—the last batch of those carrying Red Shoulders which would be leaving for the Isles. Most of its crew was still sleeping, their troubles rendering them too tired to do anything but sleep until the ship actually made landfall. A few, however—about a dozen or so—were eager to see what lay ahead of them, and were clustered in front of the deck to get a good look at where they were going. Not that the view was particularly breathtaking—these weren't called the Misty Isles for nothing. At this distance, Kain could only make out a vague black shape nestled within a seemingly endless cloud of grey fog over seas the same color. It lightened his heart, though, to know that he was at least nearing his destination. And at least a few of the people on the deck seemed to feel the same way. Five of them were the other members of his squad.

"Jann! Deckham!" Kain called, waving happily and running up to the two men sitting the starboard side, Leitner jogging behind him. They had been playing a small game of dice together, though Kain knew they were probably just keeping score of their wins rather than actually betting any money—they reserved that for Leitner, who they knew they could usually bilk. They both looked up from their game and grinned.

"Nice to see you, commander," Jann said. He was a large, muscular Armor Knight—well, General, actually. A crop of short blond hair crowned a masculine face that looked as if it had been carved from rock. His blue eyes gave the impression of a man you could trust, and he'd lived up to those expectations, even though he was the newest member of their squad. He was originally one of Garl Vinland's men and sincerely believed in the Rebel cause. He fought in the battle of Caerleon, but didn't witness his master's death, having retreated under the orders of his commanding officer before Vinland died. Unlike most of Vinland's forces, who surrendered to help maintain control over their devastated countship, Jann wanted to keep fighting, and Trunicht was quite happy to have him. Squad Seven was just as happy, since he'd acquitted himself excellently during the Second Battle of the Fortress of Spears, killing twenty royalist soldiers by himself before the arrival of that twisted, greatsword-wielding monster. He was also friendly and easy to get along with—like Leitner, he was calm and almost never lost control of himself, and he was rarely seen without a gentle smile and a kind word. He also liked sports, being forever willing to engage in a friendly arm-wrestling match or other feat of strength, which he usually won. Unfortunately, he wasn't a very creative or quick thinking man; it was obvious why Vinland had not promoted him to command. The other members of the squad could often beat him in games of strategy, but fortunately, he was as gracious in defeat as he was in victory, always willing to accept advice or give it gently whenever he won.

No-one appreciated these characteristics more than his best friend, Deckham. "Wanted some fresh air, eh, Commander?" the red-haired Hero asked. Deckham was one of the first members of Squad Seven and one of the most devoted veterans of the Revolutionary cause. He was one of the mercenaries who'd originally answered Paptimus' call, but unlike most of the others, he'd not abandoned the Rebel cause when things started to go badly for it. His background made it easy to see why. Deckham was originally from the Lycian canton of Araphen, and grew up in an orphanage up to the age of 16. That was when he applied for and succeeded in entering the Araphen militia, in order to raise money for the other children there. However, he was soon thrown into the Lycian Civil War, and the orphanage in Araphen was burned down by marauding Ostian soldiers. This made him fiercely loyal to the cause of the Araphen rebels, but when the count betrayed the rebels and sided with Ostia, Deckham found himself unable to let go of his grudge. He fled Lycia, carrying with him a burning hatred of nobles in general…along with a great deal of cynicism, melancholy, and no real skills besides his impressive swordsmanship. When Jann joined the squad, he found a kindred spirit and a fast friend—Kain noted he only really started smiling after he'd started playing his games with the big, affable General. They were well-suited for each other; Jann won their tests of strength, but Deckham won contests of speed, and both laughed at their own foibles whether they faced victory or defeat.

There was one soldier who didn't seem happy to see him, though. A Sniper stood near the railing of the deck, watching the waves with an inscrutable expression on his face. He had green hair tied back in a modest ponytail, and when he heard Kain's arrival, he turned his blue eyes to his commander in a look that was somewhere between angry and dismissive, and went back to seawatching.

Kain didn't give it much thought—Zalf was always like that. The small Sniper—shortest man in their squad—did not much like his commander at all. He had always been one of the most fanatical devotees of the Rebel cause, ever since he'd been recruited. Kain didn't know why, and Zalf did not like being asked. So devoted was he to Paptimus that he wanted to die defending the Fortress of Spears, and ever since Kain made his squad retreat, he'd carried a grudge against the Black Knight for what he considered an abandonment of the Revolution. At the same time, though, he also bore an unshakeable loyalty towards Kain—for he knew very well that Kain was not a coward. The Black Knight had suffered a grievous wound protecting him from enemy archers during the siege, and would have died if Leitner hadn't had a Heal staff handy nearby. For that alone, no matter how much he resented "fleeing" to the Western Isles, Zalf would never abandon his commander. And that was really all Kain cared about.

Loud splashing in the water near the railing caught Kain's attention, and he and Leitner turned to see what the commotion was. A priest was standing near Zalf—at least, you'd think he was a priest at first glance, were it not for the fact that his clerical vestments were black rather than white. His short lavender hair was tousled by the sea breeze, and he stared down at the water below with a peaceful expression on his soft, boyish face, watching a school of fish leap out of the water to catch the bread crumbs he was throwing at them.

"Kessler," said Kain, "I'm sure the fish appreciate it, but that's our food. Don't waste it."

"Aw, no need t' worry 'bout that," laughed Leitner. "He's just fattenin' em up so we get more eatin' when we catch em'. Ain't that right?"

Kain had to laugh, and even the usually-angry Zalf, standing nearby, couldn't suppress a chuckle when he heard that. Kessler, for his part, bowed to Leitner sincerely. "Yes, thank you, Leitner. You seem to have read my mind! Though, er, I seem to have forgot a net…"

Kain just smiled. "Don't worry about it." While they really didn't have much food, a few crumbs of bread was a luxury he was willing to spare for Kessler. The man was, in many ways, the main source of Squad Seven's emotional strength. He was perpetually gentle, understanding, and patient, always willing to provide a kind and sympathetic ear to any of his friends, no matter what their problems were. He also liked animals as much as he liked people—whether it was fish, birds, or squirrels, nothing made him happier than offering them a few treats here and there. He would have made a good Bishop, and indeed, he was training to be one…before a scandal involving his priest and mentor stealing from his parishioners demolished his faith in the Eliminean church. He thought Paptimus and the Revolutionary belief in reason was a better alternative, and had offered his skill with staves and Light magic to the Red Shoulder Battalion. Those staves—Sleep and Berserk in particular—had been very useful to Squad Seven over the course of the war.

"Some commander you are," came a young woman's pleasant, spritely voice—the last member of their squad. "Discipline's gonna go straight to pot if you don't put your foot down every now and then, Kain."

"If I did, we just wouldn't be having as much fun, would we, Kassa," Kain smirked as he watched her saunter up to them. Kassa was a Druid, and (not only to Kain) an exceptionally beautiful one as well. Though she kept her body concealed under a Druid's robes most of the time, her face alone was lovely enough to catch the attention of every male Red Shoulder. Her most striking feature, however, was her long white hair. Not grey—pure _white_, the same color as undriven snow. It fell long and straight to her back, and Kain had never seen anything like it—though he was more used to it than most.

He and Kassa had known each other ever since they were small children, but when they were teenagers their lives had begun to take different paths. His parents had always disapproved of their friendship—she belonged to a strange family, hermits living in the poor quarters, really, around whom strange rumors always swirled. They supposedly had dark magic in their blood. She disappeared when they were about fourteen, and Kain always wondered where she'd went, until she came back to him when they were sixteen, full of tales about a farsighted man named Trunicht and the sorts of changes he planned to make to Etruria. Those tales were enough to convince Kain to leave his boring life in Thagaste behind and join the Red Shoulders. Considering her talent for Elder magic, perhaps those rumors were true, but if they were, Kain probably had some "Dark" blood in him as well, considering that he was a Black Knight.

From that point on, they'd been nearly inseperable, fighting at each other's side through each battle of the Etrurian Civil War. Along with Leitner, who'd warmed up to Kassa as easily as he had Kain, they were the three strongest members of their squad. Though Kain trusted her implicitly and considered her his closest friend aside from Leitner, they were not lovers. Kain hated that state of affairs, as evident from the way he looked at her when (he thought) she wouldn't be looking.

Since she was definitely looking at him right now, he did his best, and succeeded, as usual, at keeping himself casual around her.

"Since when did a commander's duties include having fun?" she asked him, and he replied with what he thought was a witty retort: "Well, somebody has to keep morale up. Leitner can't last forever!"

"M' good cheer can," he said, then looked at Jann and Deckham. "M' wallet, though, that's another matter!"

That drew a laugh from all of them, and even the perpetually sour Zalf couldn't keep from chuckling. Kain hadn't been entirely joking, though—it was very much imperative to keep morale high, at least as much as he could. Aside from the crushing defeats they'd suffered already, all of them knew what a harsh place the Western Isles were. Though the vicious residents were supposed to be on their side, that was not guaranteed. Their Royalist enemies would probably be just as tough. Though they had been cut off from the mainland ever since the start of the war, the Etrurian colonial overlords had not been entirely rooted out by the native insurgence—they still maintained firm control over their capital of Jutes. If they'd managed to survive this long under these circumstances, they would not be easy opponents. Finally, no-one had heard anything from the supreme commander of the Revolutionary cause, Brother Paptimus of Scirocco. Though he was supposed to be keeping up with their leaders through his crystal ball, none of them had heard any reports on him for several days. Rumors were swirling about that he had been found and killed. Under so much bad news, the onset of despair could prove to be just as devastating for the Red Shoulders as anything they'd face on the islands. Kain, for his part, was determined to keep that from happening.

And it was for this reason he kept his smiling face as he continued to banter with his squadmates, his friends, up till the very moment their ship moored upon the gloomy, uninviting coast of Fibernia.

-X-

"Brother Kain! Commander Oldnar wants to see you and your squad!"

Kain gave a surprised look to the messenger who had come running up to him. It hadn't been even an hour after his ship had made landfall and his platoon had started the tedious business of setting up a beachhead base. Kain hadn't even had enough time to see much of the island aside from the section of beach they'd landed on. The beach was cold, foggy, and rocky, but otherwise not at all different from the coastlines of the mainland—it was therefore not a good introduction to the Western Isles as a whole. Still, if the Supreme Commander himself wanted to review them, the Red Shoulders must have had some pressing concern which overshadowed getting used to their new home.

Without wasting any time, Kain called over his squad. When they'd assembled, the messenger told them to make their way to the commander's tent, set up a short distance away. Leaving aside their duties of unpacking supplies and setting up tents for the moment, Squad Seven hastened over to attend the closest thing the Red Shoulders currently had to a leader.

Oldnar was seated alone at the table within the tent, peering intently at what seemed to be a letter along with a map of the Western Isles. Upon hearing Kain and his squad enter the tent, he folded it up and put it into a pocket of his robe. Kain furrowed his brow ever so slightly upon seeing this display—it was almost as if Oldnar didn't want them looking at what he'd been reading.

Of course, that was understandable for any kind of "supreme commander;" despite the Revolution's stated belief in egalitarianism, hierarchy was a practical necessity in wartime, and as Kain knew very well, a leader of men couldn't tell his troops absolutely everything. Still, Oldnar had always elicited a visceral sense of dislike and distrust from Kain. He tried to suppress those emotions as much as he could, following Revolutionary precepts of reliance on reason rather than passions, but was never entirely successful. What made it worse was that Kain couldn't be certain of why.

Oldnar looked respectable enough. Slightly taller than Kain and about twice as old (meaning he was in his late 40s), he had short, slicked-back teal hair and a goatee of the same color adorning his gaunt, tanned face. His eyes, the same color as his hair and covered by a monocle on his right, were cold and typically evinced little passion, but were also clear and perceptive. He was bigger than Kain, and more muscular, which made sense, as he was an armored warrior. Like Paptimus, he had mastered several forms of magic along with armored combat, but unlike Paptimus he had mastered Dark and Light magic rather than Dark and Anima.

Perhaps Kain distrusted Light mages generally, but that didn't make sense—he got along fine with Kessler. No, he looked at an individual's loyalty to the Rebel cause, and on that front, Oldnar was unimpeachable. One of Trunicht's men, he'd served as an able commander throughout the war—when things were going well, he had efficiently rooted out anti-Rebel sentiment in occupied territories; when things had started to go sour, his leadership had saved his troops from complete chaos at the Second Battle of Thagaste. With Paptimus and Trunicht both gone, he was the most rational choice for supreme commander.

Yes, Kain could not come up with any rational reason to distrust the man. Yet his doubts remained.

If Kain let slip any indication of his feelings towards Oldnar, the older man did not notice them. He simply nodded at his subordinates, though he didn't smile. "Ah, very punctual. Just as I'd expect from Squad Seven."

"We give everything we have for the good of the Revolution and Elibe," replied Kain, a boilerplate Revolutionary greeting. "We're too devoted to our cause to risk failure through tardiness!"

"Indeed." Now Oldnar allowed himself a slight smile, though his tone remained dry and clinical—Kain hadn't ever seen him express much emotion, which, he supposed, was an admirable trait in a Revolutionary soldier. "In any case, Kain, I'm sure you're wondering why I called you here. Let me get straight to business."

He pointed to his map of the Western Isles. "You know that we're allied with the native clans here, yes? They hate the Royalists as much as we do, and are more than happy to receive our help."

"Of course we understand that, brother."

"Good. Then, do you know how the natives have progressed with their uprising since the war began?"

This was something Kain hadn't thought about much. He and his men shook their heads.

"The answer is, "not as well as we'd hoped." The clans have united under a leader, whom I have allied with, but are still largely disorganized. Despite being entirely cut off from the mainland, the Etrurian troops here have still managed to hold on to the north and western portions of the Fibernian Isle, though they've lost control of the south and east—this is why we were able to land unmolested. Caledonia is being subjugated by Bern, so we'd hoped they could make more progress on Fibernia, but it seems like we'll be the ones responsible for this fight."

He pointed to the map. "Our ultimate objective is Jutes, which is here. We won't be able to besiege it until we have a better base, though. We want to take the Ebrakhm Valley, guarded by this castle here, and we'll use it as our primary staging area. We'll be able to push towards Jutes from there, hopefully before the Royalists can field an expeditionary force."

"I can understand all that, Brother Oldnar, but…may I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead."

"I'm not a strategist, and neither are my men. We're just soldiers. Why are you telling us all this?"

"Because you are a vital component in my upcoming plans," he said. "Tell me, have you heard of a group called the Autonomous Company?"

Kain blanched. Of course he had. Everyone had. The Autonomous Company, or Mage General Khyron's personal unit, were the most feared and hated enemies of the Revolution. With less than a dozen men and women they had stopped Garl Vinland's otherwise unbeatable assault on Caerleon. While they hadn't single-handedly won the war for the Royalists, they had caused problems for the Rebels far disproportionate to their numbers.

"That Company was one of the most painful thorns in our side all throughout the war. However, it also taught us how useful a small, elite team of operatives specifically assigned to dangerous, clandestine missions could be. Such a team would be very useful on the Isles, particularly in the taking of Ebrakhm Castle."

"And you believe Squad Seven s ideally suited for such a purpose." Kain could see where he was going. "I will accept, Brother Oldnar. But I can't speak for my men. They will make the decision for themselves."

"I trust Oldnar," said Kassa. "He hasn't led us wrong yet."

"I'll go with ya n'matter what, Kain," laughed Leitner.

"If my skills can be of use, I'll gladly offer them, Brother Oldnar," said Kessler.

Deckham and Jann looked at each other, then grinned. "Sounds like fun."

Finally, Zalf stared at Oldnar, then at Kain, then back to Oldnar—and just nodded.

"Good. _Very_ good." The Supreme Commander offered his new team a wry smile. "For today, continue to help our troops get situated here, but be sure to get lots of rest. I'll summon you early tomorrow morning to give you your orders."

Kain accepted those orders with no more than a bow. He turned to leave, and his teammates did the same. He didn't know whether they distrusted Oldnar as much as he did. But he did know one thing:

Whatever rest they had today would likely be the last in a long time.

_::Linear Notes::_

This chapter takes place after the big battle between Braddock and Paptimus in Ch. 38 of WS, but they haven't received news of Paptimus' fate yet.


	4. An Archbishop's Worries

**The Last Red Shoulder**

Chapter 4: An Archbishop's Worries

_The Third Archer of the Year 703_

_By the Saint! What trouble it was to get a hold of this magic artifact. I'll have to reward my men in Nerinheit manse handsomely for their efforts. How could Jerid and Gafgarion know of its uses? They're no magicians. No matter—in any case, my spies were able to pilfer it from their guarded stores successfully, and without being detected. That is all that matters. Now, time to see who is on the other side…_

The crystal ball Archbishop Gosterro held in front of him was proof of some very good news for the Kingdom of Etruria as well as the Eliminean Church. Whether or not that news would be equally good for the man who owned the ball's twin, however, depended on how he reacted to Gosterro's summons.

"Trunicht," he chanted, holding his hands over the globe as a hazy image appeared in its depths, "Trunicht…"

A pasty, smug-looking face framed by very pale blond hair coalesced out of the shifting cloud within the crystal. "Brother Paptimus," said the man with a knowing smile, "How good of you to—" That smile was promptly replaced by a look of mild shock when he noticed his caller was very much not the Dark General. "Wait, who—"

"Gosterro, Archbishop Gosterro. You remember me, don't you, Trunicht? I hope so, considering the efforts I spent to get you refuge in my monastery."

The slimy Black Knight was good, very good—he didn't miss a beat in his recovery. "Why of course, Your Excellency! I could never forget your kindness. You're truly an exemplar of Elimine's charity and beneficence. Rest assured, I am absolutely loving my stay at Par Massino. May I ask why you've seen fit to honor me with a visit (a crystal-ball visit, but a visit nonetheless) this fine day?"

"Why, merely to have a nice chat with one of Elimine's (and thus, _my_) most loyal servants! But first, another question for you, Trunicht. You were a little surprised to see me, were you not?"

"Well, it's not every day one is called by an Archbishop!"

"True. But the means of our conversation, that's the odd thing, isn't it? You know who this scrying globe belonged to, yes?"

"I do believe so."

"If it has fallen into my hands, Trunicht, what do you think that means?"

"Ah…perhaps Brother Paptimus has made peace with your church?"

"Pfeh." Trunicht's sarcasm was amusing, but by this point he'd grown bored of it. "Enough of these japes. Let us get down to business. I will say this only once, Trunicht. It is a mistake to underestimate me. I may be a man of the cloth, but I do not stuff my head with it. Do you honestly believe it's remotely difficult for me to see through your scheming? I did not become an Archbishop because I am naïve. I know full well your loyalty to me is not absolute, and that you were planning on playing both me and Paptimus to your own benefit. You'd tell me what he was doing in the Isles, and tell him what the Crown and the Church were planning in return. Well, my little schemer, I strongly suggest you abandon that plan. You see, Paptimus is _dead_."

Once again, it was a credit to Trunicht that only a slight furrow of his brow indicated his shock. "That is…most wonderful news, Your Excellency! Our holy Church will surely grow now that its most irascible foe has been brought to justice."

"You're quite good at telling me what I want to hear. I like that—at least you know who you _should_ be pleasing. But I would appreciate your subservience much more if I had an assurance it was sincere."

"Were not the map, plans, and _Armor _I gave you proof enough?"

"No. I am certain you have more to give me, Trunicht. I want it."

"More to give you? What are you saying?"

"I am saying, Trunicht," and a low note of irritation entered his voice, "that if your loyalty to me was not absolute before, it should be _now_. Not for any silly sentimentalism or moral reason, but for the simple fact that you need me much, much more than I need you. "Brother" Paptimus is dead and your Red Shoulders are scattered across the Western Isles. You are alone and isolated. You have absolutely no chance of gaining power and wealth—or even simple refuge—without my good graces.

"I am willing to use you, Trunicht. You are more valuable to me alive than dead. You would do very well to keep it that way. Should you continue to…spread your loyalties around, shall we say, it would be quite easy to tell Grigorius and the other monks keeping an eye on you that your sins are irredeemable and must be purged. And while you may believe yourself to be a master of the dark arts, Grigorius is a master of holy magic…and every apprentice knows that the light never fails to banish shadow."

Trunicht slumped back in his chair, thoroughly beaten. "Very well, your Excellency, you win. I pledge myself to you, body and soul."

"I need something more concrete, Trunicht. As I said, I _know_ you have more to give me. You were the leader of the Red Shoulders, not Paptimus. Maps and intelligence were the only thing you could provide? You must have more. Spies inserted among them? Troop lists? Anything more would be useful."

A wry smile returned to the former Black Knight's face. "Spies? Perhaps. I might be able to send a present to you, Your Holiness. One that would be most useful to you professionally…and, dare I say, personally?"

"Go on."

"In three days, please accept a visit from a woman named Rhia. She will tell your guards, "A friend of Grigorius has sent me." Everything will become clear then, Archbishop. Rest assured you will be most pleased."

Before Gosterro could respond, the image of Trunicht within the crystal ball winked out, leaving nothing but darkness.

"Insolent—" Gosterro began, but quickly stopped himself. Rather than raging at his annoying servant, he sat back in his comfortable chair, massaging his temples with his hands.

He would allow Trunicht a chance to prove himself. If this "Rhia" came to him at the appointed time and proved useful, he would show leniency to the former Black Knight. If not, however…

Well, Trunicht would learn the hard way that it was not wise to trifle with men of God.

-X-

"Venerable Gosterro, you have a visitor."

The Archbishop sat up in his throne in his tower-sanctuary's fifth floor and drew his eyes from Trunicht's map to the young acolyte sent to him as a messenger. "Who is it?"

"We're not sure, Your Holiness. The guards are currently detaining her outside of this tower. She doesn't seem to be a member of our Church, but rather simply a mundane parishioner of Aquleia. I'm sure you're too busy to deal with her. Shall I send her away?"

"Not so quickly. What was her name?"

"Rhia."

"Did she say anything else?"

"Hmm…She said she was a friend of Grigorius. Perhaps one of his pilgrims?"

That told Gosterro all he needed to know. "I've been expecting her. Let her in _immediately_."

"Y-Yes, Archbishop." The youth was surprised, but he knew enough to follow orders. He bowed obediently, padded out the door to the throne room and down the stairs, after which he disappeared for a few minutes. He then returned with the visitor in tow.

Gosterro raised an eyebrow when he saw the woman following his servant. This…Rhia was quite interesting indeed. At first glance, there seemed to be nothing exceptional about her. She was dressed in a simple buttoned blouse tucked into a modest brown skirt, with leather boots of the same color covering her feet, suitable for a lower-middle-class laborer or servant. She had what looked to be an expensive gold necklance draped 'round her neck, but that was the most notable aspect of her apparel.

No, what really stuck out about her was her appearance. She was _beautiful_. Her clothes, modest and unobjectionable, did not flatter her figure, but even they could not hide a body and bearing that seemed to ooze sensuality. Her skin was fair, a bit lighter than his own, and absolutely flawless. If the rise of her blouse was any indication, her breasts were large, well-formed, and pert. Her face looked as if it belonged to one of the ancient demons of lust called a Succubus. Her cheeks were neither fat nor gaunt, her nose and chin dainty and sharp, and her lips full and plump, pursed in a wry smile that made it seem as if he were merely an amusing commoner rather than a great prelate. Her eyes were striking—almond-shaped, with red irises peering at him from under thin black brows. Topping it all off was her long, luxurious black hair, falling straight down to the middle of her back.

Gosterro was very glad the thick robes of an Archbishop did such a good job of concealing his body. His erection would have been quite obvious otherwise.

"Thank you," he told his servant. "You are dismissed. This woman is far more important than she appears, and we have matters to discuss of relevance to the faithful all over Elibe. Lock the door behind you and tell all you meet I am not to be disturbed."

"Yes, Your Excellency." Only a twitch of the acolyte's eyebrow indicated he thought anything was improper. Archbishop Gosterro often had "personal meetings" with the prettier members of Elimine's flock, afterall. Those of his servants who seemed unwilling to forgive such minor indiscretions learned very quickly to hold their tongues, lest they lose their cushy and prestigious ecclesiastical positions.

After the monk had left, Gosterro turned his attention to his visitor. He moved a hand over the Lightning tome he always kept nearby—however beautiful this woman may have been, he wasn't certain he could trust her yet.

"Who are you?"

She smiled and gave him a demure curtsy. "My name is Rhia, most venerable Gosterro." Her voice was soft and quiet, but there was an unmistakable undercurrent of power behind it. "I am no more than a humble entertainer, providing my services to the men of this great city. I cannot possibly express how honored I am that you have agreed to give me an audience."

"Really, now. Let me guess…one of the men who most enthusiastically partook of your 'services' was named Trunicht, yes?"

"You know him? Oh, I'm so glad. He is truly such a wonderful man, and has treated me so very well. I hope you are good friends."

"We may be, depending on what you say next." Gosterro shifted on his throne. "Don't play games with me, woman. I know you're more than a simple courtesan. Trunicht could have any number of girls he wanted while he led the Red Shoulders, yet he told me you, specifically, had something of value. Tell me, Rhia. What, exactly, did you do for him? Aside from the obvious."

She chuckled. "As I said, I've entertained many men in this city. Many of its most powerful men. Sages and Bishops, barons and counts…all have shared my bed at some point or another. And they tell me the most interesting things…it's so amusing how the most intelligent and cunning of men will let their guard down around a woman after she's taken their seed. My dear Trunicht was more than willing to pay handsomely for that sort of information."

"That certainly makes sense…I can believe that. But there's more, isn't there? I already have an effective network of spies entrenched into this city. Even you would probably not be able to add much to it. What I really need is information on the Western Isles…those maps your patron gave me aren't enough. Do you have anything better to provide?"

"Oh, I do indeed." Turning away from him, her skirt and hair swishing through the air, she began to undo the buttons of her blouse. She untucked it from her skirt and stripped it off, leaving her upper body completely naked. Gosterro, while somewhat pleased by this display, was not very impressed. If she hoped to distract him by attempting to seduce him, she'd find herself very disappointed.

However, while her right hand was holding her discarded shirt, she raised her left to pull the long locks of her black hair away to the side, allowing the Archbishop a perfectly unobstructed view of her naked back. And _that_ was enough to really catch his interest.

Her upper back wasn't actually naked…or, more accurately, its soft, clear skin was not entirely unmarred. There was a large _tattoo_ on it.

No ordinary tattoo, though. In fact, it seemed more like a _brand_. It was pitch-black, the same color as her hair, and seemed to be seared into her skin. It took a shape Gosterro knew quite well—a Dark magic sigil. It wasn't exactly the same as those from Flux or Eclipse spells, though.

There were three six-spoked wheels set into the top right, top left, and middle of her back, forming a triangle. They were connected by three straight, thick black lines. In the center of that triangle were three concentric circles like those on an archery target, except the innermost also had six spokes which jutted out just beyond the circumference of the outermost. At the end of each of those spokes were three smaller concentric circles, similar to the large one in the center of her back.

"Do you know what this is, Archbishop?" The woman cooed coyly.

"This…" he blinked, not sure of what he was seeing. "This…this is a shadow-binding sigil, is it not? An impressive feat of dark magic, woman. I felt your power when you first entered. It seems you are indeed more than you appeared at first."

"I'm flattered, your holiness."

"So what does this sigil do? How does it work? As a holy man, my knowledge of elder magic is geared more towards fighting it than utilizing it."

"I'll be more than glad to teach you, then." She dropped her blouse and ran her right hand across her back, tracing her fingers across the sigil's design.

"Ancient magic can do more than sow terror among your enemies and reduce their bones to dust. To those willing to devote everything to it—even their own children—it can show more possibilities than they could even imagine.

"One such magic is the spell of shadow-binding. Elimineans talk much of bonding two souls as one, but disciples of the Dark can do that quite literally. Only the greatest of us, such as Trunicht and Paptimus, are capable of doing so, but for those deemed worthy…two people who share an unbreakable bond, and who share an equal love for the shadows, can accept this brand to connect their minds, no matter how far apart their bodies may be.

"Such is the purpose of this shadow-sigil. Though we are separated by many miles, by hills and mountains, water and waves, I see and hear and smell and feel everything my beloved does. And if you allow me to stay by your side…you can experience everything as well."

"Interesting. So your 'beloved' is in the Western Isles?"

"See for yourself, venerable Gosterro."

The Archbishop stood up, still gripping his Lightning tome firmly. He reached out his other hand, lightly brushed Rhia's sigil with his fingers…

And saw fog.

And felt a cool sea breeze.

And heard the waves, and smelled the salt, and felt power all around him—dozens, hundreds of dark magicians milling about, training, preparing, resting, eating, sleeping, but all directing their energies to their final destination:

The Western Isles.

He drew back, gasping, and perfectly convinced. "I…impressive, Rhia. Perhaps there's more to Dark magic than my Church gives it credit for."

"They all say that once they get to know me," she grinned. She let her hair fall over her back once again and turned to face him, allowing him a perfect view of her lovely breasts this time. "My beloved is one of the Red Shoulders…a high-ranking one. Privy to their movements, and all their secrets…and you have a direct connection to all that, through me."

"So this is Trunicht's gift to me. Yes…very worthy, certainly. I am pleased. But I must wonder, Rhia, what you get out of the deal?"

She laughed. "You'll want to keep me around, won't you? I'm sure I'm not the first woman you've lived with. An opportunity to share in your wealth, the power that comes from being attached to an Archbishop, and the protection of living under your wing…I desire no more than that."

Gosterro chuckled. "I think I can live with that. Of course, my dear…in addition to the services of intelligence-gatherer you've given to Trunicht, I trust you'll share your other talents with me as well, yes?"

She didn't even need to answer that question—not with words, anyways. Her smile growing wider, she strode up to Gosterro, cupped his face with her hands, and pressed her soft lips to his taut, older ones in a kiss that lasted a long time—and did not end there.

_::Linear Notes::_

This chapter takes place between the 38th and 39th chapter of Wayward Son.


	5. The Mage General's Mission

**The Last Red Shoulder**

Chapter 5: The Mage General's Mission

"Rosamia! _Rosamia!_ Damnation, woman, wake up!"

Khyron had been banging on his apprentice's (well, she wasn't really an apprentice anymore, but he was still quite used to calling her that) suite door for a minute now with no response. Under other circumstances, he might have been willing to be a little lenient—just a _little_. After all, she was usually quite punctual (one of her many virtues, though he wasn't used to admitting those) and after a successful conclusion to the Autonomous Company's heroic quests, he could have let her sleep in just this once. However, a servant of the King could never truly rest, and it just so happened they had an important meeting to attend. If Rosamia wasn't willing to get up, Khyron could simply leave without her, but he would not be happy about it, and he'd make sure she wouldn't be, either!

"Blasted, lazy—" Khryon growled to himself, ceasing his banging for a moment to jar the ostentatious golden doorknob. "GAH!" Much to his surprise, the door wasn't even locked, and he almost fell inside.

He was quite mortified—it would look like he was trying to sneak into a lady's room "uninvited," and he really did not want the scandal, especially since he was entirely uninterested in his apprentice anyways. Too tall and mannish for his tastes, though he could see why she appealed to that Ostian freebooter. However, his fears would turn out to be unjustified. Khyron blinked in surprise as he looked at Rosamia's bed—it was not made and its covers had been thrown off as if in haste, and it was also quite empty.

"Lord Khyron, what are you doing?!"

Khyron whirled around to see, much to his immense surprise, the person he'd been looking for standing right behind him. "Gah!" he yelled, unpleasantly surprised for the second time this afternoon. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"My apologies, my lord," came the green-haired woman's irritated reply. If he was paying attention, he would have noticed she was less contrite than exasperated. However, if he was paying attention, he would have also noticed that her eyes were red and her face was streaked with tears—it seemed as if she'd been crying.

Still, he wasn't the type to note such things. "Where the devil have you been, Rosamia!? We've a meeting with the other two Generals in a few minutes! Do you wish me to look like a fool?!"

She gasped slightly. "N-no, sir, I haven't forgotten. I…I'm sorry." Now she did appear to be somewhat abashed. I'll change immediately."

"Good, let's—" Khyron looked her over again—she seemed to have come back to the Palace from outside, judging by the brown cloak she wore. Wasn't she ready? "Wait, what do you mean by change?"

Her face turned red. "Just let me have a moment, my lord!"

She rushed in, pushed Khyron out, and slammed the door behind her. He was left sputtering in the hallway for about a minute or so before his apprentice reappeared, this time dressed in her normal attire of long skirt, tunic, and cape, albeit looking as if she'd put all of it on rather hastily.

"What the hell did you think you were doing, Rosamia? Can you imagine the scandal if people saw you dressed…like that?"

"I apologize, Lord Khyron," she sniffled. "It won't happen again. I was…I was woken up for something I couldn't miss. Quickly, let's just go to the meeting! We still have time!"

"True enough," he agreed. "Come, follow!" With a dramatic flourish of his purple cape he turned away from Rosamia and began heading towards the stairwell leading to the fifth floor of the palace, where he was scheduled to have his obediently followed his orders, though she received little credit from him; he continued to grumble about being late, and he also seemed displeased with the Autonomous Company and most of his old comrades as well. He muttered about Apolli and Lisse, Gafgarion's retirement, and, of course, Renault and Braddock blowing off King Galahad yesterday.

"Where the hell did those two run off to?" Khyron grumbled to himself. "Without even saying farewell! It's not as if I cared overmuch for those sellswords, but a goodbye's the least they could give in return for all I've done for them!"

"They…they had good reasons, milord," said Rosamia, who had overheard this bit of ranting. "Time was and is of the essence for them."

"Oh? How so?"

She bit her lip. "I…I don't know. But I'm sure they're a part of a good cause, now!"

"Hmph! Yes, a 'good cause.' Probably spending all their money on wine and women, as scoundrels are wont to do! And I thought Braddock liked you, too! What kind of a man would just up and leave you like that?!"

"L-Lord Khyron!"Rosamia's face was red and her voice _very_ irritated.

"What? Don't think I didn't notice how you two looked at each other!" Khyron harrumphed, then blushed a bit. "Besides, you are my apprentice…it's my responsibility to keep an eye out for that sort of thing."

Rosamia sighed, and Khyron was gratified to see she was at least appreciative of his (grudging) concern. "Thank you, my lord."

"Of course! I didn't take you as my apprentice just so you could remain an old maid! Now, we need to find someone else for you. I'd pinned my hopes on Braddock because not many Etrurians like tall girls such as yourself, but—"

"_Khyron!_"

As it so happened (and lucky for Khyron), this angry outburst from Rosamia occurred just as they arrived at the door to the conference chamber, and its occupants heard it.

"Hey! What's all the noise about?" Khyron and Rosamia both jerked in surprise a bit and stopped their argument when the wood doors opened and Jerid stepped out. He wasn't wearing his impressive General's armor, but he was clad in a very respectable looking outfit—comfortable white pants under a grey jacket with golden buttons and winsome gold epaulets. He was clean-shaven (something of a rarity for him) and his short brown hair was combed back, giving him a smart appearance which matched the intelligence of his clear blue eyes. Combined with his intimidating frame—he wasn't tall enough to loom over others or short enough to be stocky, but he had enough muscle to make him look like a very tough fighter—he looked just the part of a Great General.

"N-nothing!"Rosamia and Khyron said this in unison. "Anyways, Sir Jerid, we have a meeting to attend, yes?"

The former gaoler nodded. "Sure do, and you're right on time. You haven't met the new Knight General yet, have ya? Gafgarion only just left yesterday. He's got a lot o' faith in the man he appointed to replace him, and I think it's justified."

Khyron and Rosamiafollowed Jerid into the small chamber. It wasn't as large as most of the other meeting rooms, and not as lavishly decorated either; it contained nothing more than a large round table (on top of which was a large map) with six chairs set about it. At one of the chairs was sitting a bright-looking young man who was apparently the Knight General.

This fellow was dressed in the same attire as Jerid, save that his doublet was blue rather than appearance, however, was what was really unusual. He was a little on the short side—just under six feet. He wasn't quite as bulky as the Great General, but his frame was well-muscled. Khyron would have described it as "compact;" it seemed as if there was a lot of power in a small form. His skin was a bit darker than Khyron's or Jerid's—olive-colored. His face had a hard-edged, almost bladelike quality to it. Prominent cheekbones, narrow brows, and a small nose framed a pair of almond-shaped brown eyes under short, neatly trimmed green hair, a shade darker than Rosamia's. It seemed as if this man was Sacaen.

"Sir Khyron," he said, in an upbeat, friendly voice which seemed to belie his no-nonsense appearance. "I've heard a lot about you! It's an honor to meet you." He got up and extended a hand to the Mage General. "I look forwards to working with you!"

Khyron looked at him suspiciously, not yet taking the proffered hand. "What's your name?"

"Wayland."

"You're the Knight General? You don't look Etrurian. Have you some Sacaen blood in you?"

"He's a very good fighter, Khyron," said Jeridquickly, hoping to stave off what he thought would be an unpleasant confrontation. "Don't have t' worry a bit about his skills. Gafgarion vouched for 'im."

"I asked about his ethnicity."

"I'm half-Sacaen," said Wayland coolly, withdrawing his hand. "My mother was born in Bulgar, converted to Eliminism, and moved to Etruria, where she served Archbishop Aleffine as an ecclesiastical assistant. She married my father, one of the castle ballisticians. They wanted me to follow his footsteps, but it turned out I was better with horses and spears than artillery. 'S how I ended up as the Knight General. Hope that's not a problem?"

Khyron stared at him for another moment—then extended his own hand. "If I've tolerated Ostians and traitors in my entourage, I can deal with a half-breed. I don't care what kind of blood you've got running through your veins so long as you've loyalty to King Galahad and valor in your heart!"

Jerid and Rosamia both breathed sighs of relief, and Wayland accepted Khyron's hand with a grateful smile of his own. "Glad to hear it, friend. I promise I won't let you down!"

"You'd better not," Khyron growled. "Now, let's get down to business. What quest are we to embark on now?"

"Let's sit down, first," said Jerid. All four of them did gestured towards the map on the table—it depicted the Western Isles.

"No point beatin' around the bush," Jerid began. "I'll get right to the point. Khyron, Wayland, the Rebels aren't beat yet. They're hurtin' pretty damn bad, but not down entirely. A few months before he died, Paptimus started scrounging together every unit that hadn't surrendered or been annihilated. We estimate it's about a fifth of the rebels' original battle strength. He sent 'em over to the Western Isles, which nobody had any time to pay attention to with all the chaos goin' on in the mainland. Pretty smart move. In any case, now that we've secured the kingdom itself, we can get our eyes on destroyin' the rebel remnants and regainin' control of our colonies. Problem is, that's easier said than done…"

"What's the situation there?" Khyron asked. "I've been too busy with affairs here to know what's been going on overseas!"

"That's understandable, mil—er, Sir Khyron. Wayland, can you fill him in?"

"Yep." The half-Sacaen pointed towards a large dot on the northwestern side of Fiberniaisland, then another large dot to the east of it, separated by some large mountains. "Those two dots represent our last holdings on the Western Isles—the city of Jutes and Ebrakhm Valley Castle. Those need to be defended at all costs to hold the isles."

"Wait, our last two holdings?!" Khyron sputtered. "We were supposed to own all of the Isles! What about Idina Castle, on Caledonia? This war hasn't lasted that long! How have we lost so much!"

"The people of the Isles have never really accepted Etrurian rule," came Wayland's grim reply. "The moment Nerinheit declared independence, the clans and pirates rose up against the garrisons we had on Fibernia. They fought as well as they could, and inflicted heavy casualties upon the natives, but they were cut off from supplies and reinforcements thanks to the rebels controlling so much of the mainland's coasts. Making matters even worse was the arrival of the remaining Red Shoulders a few weeks ago. Those are battle-hardened, merciless veterans, much tougher than the disorganized clansmen of the Isles. They've pushed our forces back and back. We've only been getting scattered intelligence from the Isles, thanks to our friends in the Church—the Red Shoulders haven't been attacking them, for some reason, and it's been a Godsend for us. From what we've gathered, though, Ebrakhm Castle will fall soon—they've amassed a huge force to send against it. I don't think we'll be able to save it."

"What of Caledonia? How fares Idina Castle?"

Wayland's face grew even grimmer. "It's already been lost, milord."

"Don't call me 'lord,' if you're a Knight General, we're equal now," snapped Khyronirritatedly. He'd have to teach Wayland the same lessons he taught Jerid, apparently. "Anyways, what did you say about Idina?"

"It's fallen."

"What?! Impossible! Were our forces there so weak?"

"Apparently. The commander we appointed to maintain control of Fibernia, Lord Jubal, was not the most loyal man of Etruria's army. From what we've gathered from our sources, he was waiting to see who won the war before truly declaring his allegiance. However, the people of Caledonia had their own plans. His forces were overwhelmed, so he and his men simply abandoned the island. It's entirely in the hands of the natives, now."

"Faithless cur!What happened to him?!"

"We don't know. His ship probably headed to Nabata—if you're a fugitive from the Crown, that blasted desert is a good place to hide."

"So he's out of our reach? Damnation!" Khyron slumped back in his chair. "So, Fibernia's almost lost to us, Caledonia entirely so, and the Red Shoulders have entrenched themselves on the former. Any other bad news you'd care to tell me?"

" 's Bern. I think they're finally making their move for the Isles. We received a message a few days ago from one of our bases in said that a gigantic Bernese fleet was sailing up the strait separating it from the Missur Peninsula."

"Oh, _wonderful._ Isn't this the same trick they tried with Barbarossa? Where is it headed?"

"I'm almost certain they'll make landfall in Caledonia. Bern has wanted to control the Isles for a while, and the smaller island is an ideal stepping stone. Those well-trained Bernites ought to be able to crush the natives—they're a lot more ruthless than Jubal was. They'll probably arrive within two months."

"Uppity Bernites, unruly natives, and rebel scum," groaned Khyron. "We have to crush all of them? No matter! If this is what the King has ordered, it is what shall be done. Where should we start?"

"I don't," Rosamia began, then looked at Khyron. "May I speak, milord?"

"Fine."

"I don't think it would be a good idea to strike out against the Bernese fleet first. It might set off full-scale with them, and we can't afford that right now. Caledonia's already lost, anyways. I think we should consolidate what we have left in Fibernia, and then concentrate on retaking the rest of the Isles."

Before Khyron could say something like "cowardly woman," Jerid lent his support to the idea. "Thank makes sense, Lady Rosamia," he said, scratching the brown stubble on his chin. "Additionally, it's good for us t' let the Bernese bleed 'emselves out on Caledonia. One thing I learned as a jailer is that it's best to set bad guys against each other when you can. The more they exhaust themselves fightin' one another, the easier it is to bag 'em both. Same applies to the Western Isles. Let the Bernites and the Natives knock each other around a bit over there. By the time we're finished with Fibernia and can turn to Caledonia, whoever's left standin' over there will be that much easier to deal with."

"Not the most honorable plan, but a sensible one…I've had to get used to those," said Khyron. "So how can we relieve Fibernia? Who's in charge there?"

"The commander of Fibernia is Lord Ikarus," said Wayland."He is a more capable man than Jubal, and has managed to maintain control of the northern parts of the island with a respectable degree of success. However, even he won't be able to withstand an assault from the Red Shoulders. His men have gone without reinforcement or relief since the Civil War began, and morale and supplies are running very low. The last report we received indicated a large Rebel force was moving towards Ebrakhm Castle, and it will likely fall by the time we get there. However, they'll have to consolidate and prepare their forces for a full-scale assault on Jutes.

"Therefore, I think we should make our first priority the defense of Jutes. We'll dispatch a force from Nerinheit, sail over Dhia, the north and northwestern coasts of Fibernia, and land at the capital. We should arrive before the insurgents do, and we'll break their assault on Jutes.

"This has the added bonus of displaying our strength to the people of the Isles. From what I understand of the islanders, the one thing they respect more than anything else is strength. If we can show them we're stronger than the Red Shoulders, we might be able to get them to turn against Paptimus' leftovers, if not convince them we deserve to rule."

"Another sound plan," said Khyron, mildly impressed. "You know a lot about the culture of these islanders for a half-Sacaen, Wayland."

The Knight General shrugged and allowed himself a bashful smile. "It takes more to be a General than just skill on the battlefield. Gafgarion wouldn't have nominated me for the position if I was dumb. Anyways, what do you think? Anyone have any objections?"

"What if they call off the siege on Jutes?" Rosamia pondered.

"If they do, Jutes is still the best base for us to begin a larger campaign. We'll need the help of Ikarus and his men no matter what, so we might as well link up with them."

"True, but wait," said Khyron. "We'll be launching at Nerinheit, correct? Then what are we doing _here?!_ It took me weeks to get from Aquleia to Nerinheit! It'll take me weeks to get back! Why didn't we hold this meeting at Nerinheit itself?"

"We would have liked to, but the king was insistent on seeing you and didn't want to move himself to Nerinheit," said Jerid resignedly. "Still, it took us a while to set up a detachment to send over the Shield of Durbans. We can't send everything we have over there, most of our army needs to stay on the mainland to restore and keep order as well as discourage Bern from attacking.

"We've kept Lord Barim Reglay setting up an expeditionary force at Nerinheit. It'll take him about two more weeks to get everything ready…which should be about as long as it takes you to get back there, since only you, Wayland, and your entourage need to travel. Everything else should be ready up there. You ought to be able to make it in time, at least with the help of another pair of Warp staves."

"That sounds reasonable," said Khyron. "Wait, you said only Wayland and I. What are you going to be doing?"

"Someone needs to stay on the mainland to watch over the reconstruction of our defenses. Like I said, Bern might just take an opportunity to kick us when it thinks we're down. We can't let that happen." Jerid shook his head. "I'd love t' come along, but I'm needed here. You two will be responsible for takin' care of the Isles."

"Damned Bernites," Khyron grimaced. "And if both Wayland and I leave to fight in the Western Isles, what will become of our lands? Caerleon has been leaderless for some time, though Landez is an adequate overseer…"

"Hmm…" Again, Jerid scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Khyron, why don't y' leave things in Rosamia's hands?"

Both he and his former apprentice nearly fell off of their chairs, and both exclaimed "WHAT?!" at nearly the same time.

"I'm serious. Gafgarion mentioned he worked with Rosamia a lot back b'fore the war, when he was helping you run Caerleon. I'd wager Rosamia probably picked up a few things about governance from him. Am I wrong?"

The woman shifted uneasily. "Well, no, but still…"

Jerid sighed. "Your humility's admirable, along with your loyalty to Khyron, but we don't have time for it right now. As you can guess, our kingdom's got a major personnel shortage, and that'll likely be the case 'till we get things back in order. We _need_ every capable man—_or woman_—available. Nobody else is as qualified to maintain control of Caerleon as you, m'lady. Besides," and his voice grew a bit quieter and more sympathetic, "I bet you're getting tired of all this fighting. If anyone's earned a bit of rest, it's you."

Rosamia looked at him gratefully, and though Khyron scowled, he had to admit that perhaps she did deserve a bit of kindness for her resolute service all this time. It was much more than he'd expected from a female. "So be it," he said. "Rosamia, I expect my lands to be in _perfect_ condition when I return victorious from the Isles."

"I'll do my best, m'lord."

"In that case, all seems to be settled. Is there anything else, Jerid?"

"Maybe," he replied. "I probably shouldn't need to tell you this, Khyron, but…be careful. The natives and the Red Shoulders might not be the only problems we have over there."

"There are _always_ more problems," came Khyron's bitter response, "I know that quite well. What are they this time?"

"It's probably nothing," said Wayland, "but there are a lot of bad rumors floating about Lord Ikarus on Jutes. At first glance, he _seems_ more loyal than Jubal, but we haven't had much opportunity to keep an eye on him, with the war and all. But the natives hate him something fierce, even more so than they hate everyone else, and though the Isles are a profitable gig, he seems to be richer than he should be from just mining. He might be up to something…or maybe I'm just paranoid. Either way, don't let your guard down over there, Khyron."

"I never have, and I never shall!"

"Glad to hear it. In that case, I think we're done for today. Rosamia, you probably want to start getting your things ready for your return to Caerleon. Like Khyron says, Landez has been doin' a good job over there, so there's no rush. Your lord and Wayland on the other hand…well, I'd like you to get started on your journey tomorrow morning. Spend the rest of the day getting your supplies together, and we'll also give you some Warp staves for the trip. Me, I've gotta head south…we need to fortify the border with Sacae in case Bern decides to attack through there."

"You attend to your duties, Wayland and I will attend to ours, Come, Knight General! No time to tarry!"

Khyron got up and swept out of the room, almost leaving Wayland behind before the other man hastily followed. He didn't even bother saying goodbye to either Jerid or Rosamia, though it would be quite a long time before he saw them again.

He would later write, in his account of the events that followed, that it was probably for the best.

_::Linear Notes::_

This takes place right after Ch. 39 of Wayward Son. Also, for those of you reading this, I have a new FE4 fic out, "The Confessor!" Please give it a look if you're so inclined :D


	6. The Fall of Castle Almar

**The Last Red Shoulder**

Chapter 6: The Fall of Castle Almar

It was long past time to show the Western Isles what Squad Seven could really do. Kain was looking forward to it.

The Royalist defenders of Castle Almar, looking over the Ebrakhm Valley, were undermanned and undersupplied, but they were disciplined and experienced, and occupying a defensible location in which they were strongly entrenched. Additionally, they had 500 men to Kain's 1000. While the Red Shoulders and their islander allies had made significant progress over the last several months, to the point where only Almar and Jutes were still in Royalist hands, it had been slower than they'd hoped. The Royalists had occupied several other important positions in the north, and the Red Shoulders had been forced to divide up their men and resources to root them out. Thus, despite the rebels having a significant advantage in numbers and morale, they could only spare two hundred of their own men and eight hundred natives to confront some of the island's best soldiers.

There were three rivers separating the rebel army from Castle Almar. The first was crossed by three bridges, the next two by only one. Those bridges were all large, sturdy affairs made of stone, so the Royalists would probably not be able to destroy them, but they were all guarded by heavily-armored Generals backed up by ballistae and Sages. They would not be easy to cross, especially since the majority of Kain's forces consisted of unruly and poorly trained Fighters, Corsairs, and Bandits. The Red Shoulders, in particular Squad Seven, would be primarily responsible for taking the castle.

All these thoughts ran through Kain's head as he sat on his horse about a hundred yards east from the eastern bridge of the first river, on the Xth of Y, 703 A.S. Around him, upon the rocky ground of Fibernia, stood the other members of Squad Seven: Jann, Deckham, Leitner, Zalf, Kessler, and of course Kassa. It was the middle of the day, ordinarily a perfect time to do battle, but a heavy mist had fallen over the area, making it nearly impossible for anyone to see anything more than a few feet ahead of their faces.

This would work much in Squad Seven's favor.

The battle had already been joined, and it was not going well for the Rebels. Each of the three bridges was defended by a quartet of Generals and Mages, backed up by Sages and Ballistae raining death upon the invaders from farther away thanks to their fellow Mages acting as spotters. The poorly-trained natives were vicious, but still dying in droves, and while the Red Shoulder forces (mainly Cavaliers) weren't faring as badly, they couldn't break through the defenses of the Generals either. Squad Seven would change that.

They were standing some distance away from the battle, seemingly unable to help. There was no bridge here, which meant no way to get across the river. "Seemingly" was the important word there, though. Jann and Deckham had something which might come in quite handy.

"Rrrrgh!" The two men grunted and strained as they began to push forwards one of the "presents" they'd taken along for this mission. It was a pair of large, hollow tree trunks lashed together with rope. In other battlefields across Elibe, it was common for warriors to fell trees near rivers to serve as makeshift bridges if there was no other option. There were no trees in this desolate area of the Isles, but that wasn't a problem for Squad Seven—they figured they'd bring their own. It hadn't been easy lugging them all the way from the small village to the south where they'd had their last mission (single-handedly destroying a force of 50 royalist occupiers), but Jann and Deckham were the strongest members of their band and had risen admirably to the occasion.

The plan was to plop this makeshift bridge over a narrow section of the river away from combat, so Squad Seven could cross it and give the defenders a nasty surprise. If it wasn't for the fog, they might have been noticed, but the Royalists couldn't see them, being too occupied with the masses of troops being thrown at them from the front. The General and the Hero brought forth one last mighty shove and the pair of hollow logs slammed down over the river, allowing Squad Seven to get across.

Kain and Leitner led the way, their black steeds galloping across the logs without hesitation. They neared a couple of unfortunate Sages who heard them, but didn't see who they were until they were already upon them. A pair of Fenrir spells reduced them to dust. The same fate befell a pair of enemy ballisticians nearby, their artillery falling silent along with their corpses. By this point, the other Royalist soldiers had heard the screams and commotion, but the rest of Squad Seven had caught up to Kain and Leitner and still had the advantage of surprise. The dozens of Sages and Archers provided ranged support died at the ends of a Killer Spear and Sword, with Shortbow arrows through their throats, blasted apart by Divine spells, and rendered to dust by more Fenrir magic. The Generals guarding the bridges realized that something was coming up behind them, and the chaos wrought by Squad Seven convinced them that it was actually a much larger force. To their credit, they didn't panic, but they did attempt to fall back to assist their beleaguered comrades. Bad decision—they were promptly swarmed and annihilated by the Red Shoulder cavaliers and the natives.

The rebels had regained the momentum, and let loose a loud cheer, in which Kain and his friends couldn't stop themselves from joining. The battle was still far from won, though—the next two rivers had only one bridge crossing them, and enemy forces were still deeply entrenched beyond both.

That was where the next part of the plan came into play, though.

Castle Almar was located near the eastern coast of Fibernia—the rivers crisscrossing the valley it protected were fed by the sea. Kain grinned when he saw flashes of red and orange light detonating in the distance, strong enough to pierce the fog. They were exploding _over_ the eastern sea—which meant the Rebels' reinforcements had arrived.

The strongest pirate lord of the Isles, Varg, had died during the Civil War, but they'd succeeded in recruiting his successor: Zarg. Though the pirate didn't yet trust them enough to come to the field with them, he'd agreed to spare three hundred of his men on six ships. Thanks to the fog, the Royalists didn't notice them till they'd almost made landfall. Their ships would anchor off the coast nearest to the castle itself, which meant that many of the sages and ballista which would have been attacking Kain and his forces were now occupied by the pirates.

The Royalists were in trouble, and they knew it. Their discipline didn't break, however, and they'd learned their lessons from what happened to their fellows on the first three bridges. The Generals and Sages gurding the single bridge over the second river didn't dare leave their positions, and would be willing to give their lives, if necessary, no matter what was happening behind them.

Against Squad Seven, that was exactly what would happen.

Rather than throw themselves at the formidable defense of the second bridge, the Red Shoulders and their native allies held back, allowing Squad Seven a chance to crack it. And crack it they did.

They stopped their advance for just one moment, to allow Kessler to work his magic. He chanted the words of an ancient spell as he held his Barrier staff close to both Jann and Deckham, bathing them in a dim blue radiance which would shield them from magic attacks. Then they resumed, with the two friends taking the lead, Zalf edging up behind them, and Kessler, Leitner, Kain, and Kassa staying some distance behind him.

The rationale for this formation soon became clear. As Jann and Deckham neared the bridge, they were met by another flurry of ranged attacks. The Royalists thought they'd have an easy kill…but the Hero and the General were no ordinary pair of soldiers. They didn't even bother to dodge the Bolting spells, which spattered harmlessly off of Kessler's Barrier. They only concerned themselves with the Ballista bolts. Deckham broke into a run, which meant that the ballistae found it impossible to hit him in the fog, and Jann simply ignored them; even the massive bolts simply bounced off his huge ebony shoulderplates.

The Royalist Generals guarding the bridge were unnerved, but not broken. They soon would be. As his two companions charged, Zalf quickly nocked an arrow and sent it flying between them. His aim was true, very true—he'd made a perfect, almost virtuosic shot; the arrow slammed right into the vulnerable eye port of one General's helmet and into his brain. As he fell, the magic-users of Squad Seven launched their own magic barrage—a trio of Eclipse spells from Leitner, Kain, and Kassa punctuated by a Purge blast from Kessler. The remaining Generals were set reeling, making them easy prey for Jann and Deckham. Bright silver flashes shone brightly in the fog as the Hero cut and hacked and the General thrust and stabbed. The crunching of metal and a chorus of screams indicated the bridge was now clear, and Kain hollered at the top of his lungs for the Rebels to advance. Kassa got on the back of his horse, Kessler on Leitner's, and the two of them spurred their mounts to gallop behind Zalf, Jann, and Deckham, who had continued to advance and were now focused on destroying the demoralized Sages and ballisticians behind the second river. Squad Seven was followed by the roaring, cheering masses of natives and the other Red Shoulders.

By this point, the Royalist defenders were in dire straits indeed. The pirates had made landfall behind the third and final river and were advancing upon the castle. Realizing they were outflanked and that their defenses were rapidly failing, the Royalists had abandoned their third bridge and retreated back to Castle Almar itself.

There, they still proved they could put up a vicious, vicious fight. Castle Almar itself was not a small, piddling affair. It was close to a fortress, with massive walls ringing a keep bristling with murder holes and dozens of turrets and ballista emplacements. The pirates and the advancing Rebels (who had crossed the now-undefended third river) were again dying by the droves as they were blasted by an unceasing hail of spells from the Sages within the walls along with what seemed to be an almost literal rain of arrows and ballista bolts.

Once again, Squad Seven came to the rescue. "To the east!" Kain yelled. His squadmates didn't know why, but they obediently followed, dodging spells and artillery along the way. When they got in view of the castle's eastern wall, they realized why. There was a large crack running through it. Had the rebels been given some catapults, they might have been able to smash it apart, but as it was, only Squad Seven had the firepower to breach it. Kain and Leitner again spurred their mounts, and the horses galloped up to their impressive full speed, heading straight at the wall and moving too swiftly to be hit by the defenders. As they neared, their riders readied their spells. The Dark magic unleashed a trio of Fenrir spells this time, and the stone of the wall began to rot away as if it were wet wood. A chanting Kessler blasted the weakened section with a Divine spell, and it finally crumbled.

Kain and his friends stopped for a moment, both to let Jann, Deckham, and Zalf catch up to them…and to allow the masses of allied soldiers to pour around them through the newly-created breach. The defenders of Castle Almar could no longer maintain their positions now that their enemies were inside the castle grounds. Archers abandoned their ballistae and Sages put away their Bolting tomes, but the enemy was already upon them, Red Shoulders storming the castle grounds and surrounding and eliminating the remaining Generals and Heroes and the Corsairs and Fighters scaling the walls to dispatch the ranged soldiers.

Now, only the castle keep itself was left. Its gate had closed and it had raised its drawbridge from its moat, but that proved no problem for its attackers. Kain had familiarized himself with the castle's layout thanks to reports from an escaped prisoner who'd once been locked in its dungeons—that was how he knew the section of the east wall was weak. He'd also been informed of how the castle's drawbridge mechanism worked. Thus, he brought his mount over to it, shielding himself in shadow to ward off the spells and arrows tossed down on him. He raised a hand, pointed it at the raised bridge, and summoned the energy of the Fenrir spell—not at the bridge itself, but above it and behind it. The information he'd been given was true. Behind the wall and the gate itself, the chains holding the bridge up rotted away, sending it back down and allowing the rebels entry.

They surged over the newly-lowered drawbridge and into the castle, sweeping away its exhausted defenders. The Royalists had still not panicked or broken completely, but it did them little good, as they knew very well. They fought to the death, refusing to give up, not because they had any hope of victory but because they knew they were already dead anyways.

Those who faced Squad Seven ended up dead sooner than their comrades. The elites spearheaded the rush into the castle. Kain and Leitner trampled unfortunate infantrymen under the hooves of their mounts, Zalf, Jann, and Deckham followed behind, dispatching any Royal soldiers which had been left over, and Kassa and Kessler took up the rear, shielding their friends from ranged attacks with their own long-ranged magic.

At this point, the pirates and natives could take control of most of the castle by themselves, but Kain knew they'd have trouble taking the lord's quarters, where the throne was located. Therefore, this was where he'd next lead his squad. He and Leitner dismounted in the Great Hall, now owned by the rebels, and together with their companions, they charged forwards towards a stairwell at the far end of the room.

As they ascended to the second floor, they were met by a hail of arrows, all of which bounced off Jann's armor, for he was leading their charge. He kept his spear in front of him as he ran, which resulted in him impaling the archer, taking the body up with him, and discarding it only when he reached the second floor. The rebels had already began to penetrate the upper levels of the castle, so Squad Seven's trip to the third and fourth floors went smoothly enough. Only when they reached the fifth, at last, did they encounter what their comrades had been unable to conquer.

When they emerged onto the hallway, they almost slipped and fell, for the floor was slick with blood. The eviscerated bodies of pirates and native axemen were splayed unceremoniously all across the area, and more troublingly, there were also chunks of frozen ice scattered around which were in the shape of hands, legs, and heads.

"Lord Gelmen's the owner of this castle, and I hear he loves his Fimbulvetr tome," Kain said grimly. "Everyone, be careful."

Oddly—and unnervingly—enough, there was no-one alive in the hallway. It seemed as if the rebels had made an attempt on the throne room earlier, were repulsed, and then gave up, leaving everything quiet. At least, until now.

Squad Seven advanced cautiously towards the large oak doors leading to Castle Almar's throne room. No-one came to meet them…though as they neared, they noticed something very strange. There was a breeze wafting in from under the door. No, 'breeze' was too weak a word—there was a chill wind, almost as if a little piece of _Ilia_ was locked in behind that door.

Kain gulped and tightened his grip on his magic tome. He wouldn't be stopped, though, and neither would his friends. "Kessler, restore the enchantments on all of us. We'll need them." The Bishop did as he was told, spending the last charges of his Barrier staff on placing a magic shield around all of his friends. Then the taking of the throne could begin in earnest. Jann walked up to the door, took a deep breath, then, with a dramatic flourish of his Silver Spear, he spun the weapon around in front of him and slammed it into the doors. The wood was strong and thick, but still no match for his strength. They blew apart in a shower of wood splinters, allowing Squad Seven a good view of who their last challenge would be.

The throne room of Castle Almar was actually a rather Spartan affair. No expensive rugs, windows, sculptures, or other such luxuries, few on the Western Isles could afford them, after all, even nobles. There was only a wooden conference table (well, the remains of such, it had apparently been destroyed) in the center of a room large enough to hold perhaps thirty people in a meeting. The walls and floors were bare stone, with only modest glass windows cut into the former to allow the sunlight in. The throne itself was really more of a large wooden chair, lacking even cushions for comfort.

On that throne sat Lord Gelmen, staring impassively at his new guests.

He was clad in a typical Sage's raiment, except his tunic was pure snow-white and his cape was blue. Only a small gold necklace 'round his neck indicated his position. He was about Kain's height, with tanned, weathered skin, piercing blue eyes set into a lean, angular face, all framed by stark-white hair bound into a tight ponytail that fell just down to the back of his neck. He was reclining with his legs crossed, holding a blue Fimbulvetr tome tightly to his chest.

"It's over, Gelmen," Kain began, advancing towards the Sage with his Fenrir tome at the ready. "You put up a good fight, but you can't possibly win. Surrender now, and—"

The lord of Almar Castle allowed himself a small smile. "No, I don't think so. This keep may be yours, but you'll have to work just a bit harder to get it!"

"They always gotta make it difficult," grumbled Leitner, but he didn't have time to grumble much more. Before any of them could react, Gelman flipped open his Fimbulvetr tome—and then the whole world exploded into white.

"Gyah! What the hell?!"

"Dammit, Kain," Zalf yelled, "You've led us into a trap!"

It may have been a trap, but it was like nothing Kain had ever experienced before. Yes, he and his friends seemed to have been blinded by white—because it was _snowing inside the throne room itself_. Gelman had summoned a miniature, self-contained blizzard with the power of the Fimbulvetr tome. The floor was covered in a thick blanket of snow (making it harder to move), snow, boosted by ice-cold rushing winds, was flying everywhere, making it even harder to see than in the fog outside, and worst of all, Gelmen himself seemed to have disappeared.

"Stupid tricks," Kassa yelled. "Just kill Gelmen and this'll all end!"

"Wait," called Kain, but he heard her chanting, and the next thing he knew he saw a purple sigil form over an indistinct black shape he could make out a few feet in front of him. The Fenrir spell activated with a flash of purple light, and for a moment he allowed himself to hope it had hit Gelmen. Then he heard nothing more than the crumbling of rotting wood, and realize it had hit an empty throne.

Then he felt a massive explosion beneath his feet, pain wracking every inch of his body, and being slammed into the air as Gelmen retaliated.

"AAAAAH!"

A huge ice crystal, almost half as large as the room itself, had blasted out of the ground, scattering the members of Squad Seven and sending them flying. Only Kessler's Barrier spell kept anyone from being killed.

"Rrgh!" Kain gasped as he slammed back down on the floor, fighting a wave of nausea. He blinked through bleary, tear-stained as he struggled to get to his feet. He whipped his head around, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of the Sage. Where the hell was Gelmen? He couldn't see his enemy, for some reason—he couldn't tell if it was due to the magic snow, or if Gelmen had actually turned himself invisible. Kain could hear, however, Gelmen's voice. It was another chant, one he recognized as the lead-up to another Fimbulvetr spell.

"Watch out!" he screamed, and around him he could hear his friends scampering around the snow-covered ground, trying to avoid the next blast. Another massive ice crystal materialized out of the air, but this time the shouts of his friends were angry rather than pained—at least they'd been able to dodge it. Kain was still on his hands and knees, but as he attempted to rise, he noticed something interesting. Gelmen actually _was_ invisible, or so it seemed. However, he was leaving tracks in the snow he had summoned. They were almost immediately covered up by the winds of the blizzard, but they lasted just long enough for Kain to get a vague idea of where the Sage was moving. He immediately grabbed his Fenrir tome, opened it, and sent a spell at the last place he'd seen a footprint. Gelmen let out a surprised cry, and Kain heard feet slipping over snow as another purple sigil exploded a few feet in front of him.

The light of the sigil should have been visible to everyone, even through the snow. "ATTACK THERE!" Kain screamed. Almost instinctively, Zalf, Kassa, Leitner, and Kessler followed his orders. Two more Fenrir sigils appeared in the air where Kain's had exploded, a Divine spell fell onto the ground, and Zalf sent an arrow flying blindly to where he thought Gelmen might be.

It was a lucky shot. Gelmen was still invisible, but Kain heard a scream and saw, just in front of him, a black-fletched arrow seemingly floating in the air. It must have hit the Sage's shoulder. "There! _There!"_ he yelled again, but was met by a sheet of ice flying through the air right at his head. He immediately raised his arms in front of his face and tried to summon a shield of shadow; this likely saved his life, but the force of Gelmen's Fimbulvetr spell sent him reeling backwards.

With an angry roar, Jann's obisidian-plated form came barreling at the tiny arrow seemingly floating in the air, but he fared worse than his commander—Gelmen turned just in time to launch a second Fimbulvetr spell, and this one hit the General head-on, _completely encasing him in a block of ice_. Kain cursed, and Kessler immediately blasted Jann's frozen prison with a Divine spell. The ice shattered, and the General collapsed to the ground, motionless. His friends could only hope he was simply unconscious rather than dead.

If the latter, however, his best friend was determined to avenge him. With a rage-filled, almost berserk shout, Deckham tossed his shield into the air, then jumped up after it. He withdrew the Silver Sword kept in its sheath, and brought it crashing down upon the set of footprints which had appeared just before Jann had been hit.

Kain blinked. As suddenly as it had started, the blizzard stopped. The snow in the air had disappeared, and the stuff on the ground had melted—as he got to his feet, he could hear his greaves slosh around in water. He looked around, and could see his comrades clearly; they were as surprised as he was. He found answers to his questions when he looked to the center of the throne room.

Gelmen stood in front of Deckham, staggering uneasily as blood spurted from the stump where his left arm had been. He took a faltering step back, then collapsed to his knees as his killers gathered around him. Kessler tended to Jann, who had indeed been knocked unconscious, not killed—as the soothing light of a Heal staff washed over him, he grinned as the Bishop helped him to his feet. "Hah, I had nothing to worry about," he joked, "All this armor would've kept me warm!"

Gelmen, for his part, was nowhere near as jovial. He gazed up at Squad Seven, making no attempt to mask his hatred for them, now. "Go…go ahead and kill me," he gasped. "You've already lost. Even if you take this entire island, the King will simply hunt you down. Th…there's no escape…not for you…"

"Maybe not. But there's _definitely _none for you."

Kain placed one hand on the dying Sage's forehead, and with his other opened his Fenrir tome. And then, with the howl of Dark magic and one last, anguished scream, the battle for Castle Almar came to an end.

_::Linear Notes::_

The map for Chapter 10A of Sword of Seals is used in this chapter.


	7. To the Isles!

**The Last Red Shoulder**

7: To the Isles!

"My word, Barim. I'm impressed!"

That was high praise coming from the usually terse Mage General. Khyron knew it, and he knew that Barim knew too. And much to his satisfaction, his staff officer responded graciously, bowing his head before raising it again to brush aside a few pale, grey-blue locks of hair from his eyes. "Thank you, milord. Truth be told, though, this was not too much of a challenge. I thought we would be setting for the Western Isles by the time we took Nerinheit, and we already had many experienced soldiers as well. It was not at all difficult for me to organize an expeditionary force and amass a fleet to ferry them across the Shield of Durbans."

Khyron nodded as he looked over the massive fleet of 50 ships floating in Nerinheit's harbor. All large three-masted sailing ships, they were filled with the 6000 battle-hardened elite troops sent to reinforce the Royalists remaining on the Western Isles.

"Seems like we've got everything ready," said Knight General Wayland, who was standing next to his colleague Khyron, having accompanied him to Nerinheit. "We should be ready to depart. Excellent job indeed, Barim." The Sage offered another bow at the compliment. "So is there anything we're waiting for? The sooner we get to the Isles, the better."

"Hmm," said Khyron. "There is, actually. Before we left Aquleia, I was told there would be an emissary from the Church waiting for us. Perhaps to bless our expedition. Yet I've seen no-one waiting for me and Wayland since we arrived at these docks!"

Fortunately, Khyron wouldn't have to find anyone—that 'emissary' had managed to find him, at long last, at least.

"Lord Khyron," came a loud cry from the other end of the docks. "Lord Khyron~!"

"Eh?" Khyron, Barim, and Wayland all turned to see two men walking up to them. Well, one man walking and another one scampering hastily at them. None of them recognized the walking man, but Khyron, at least, knew his companion.

"Eh? Aren't you..." Khyron squinted as the shorter youth jogged up to him, huffing and puffing. He was dressed in a modest brown cassock, the type favored by traveling Eliminean mendicants. His face was bright and cheery, but seemed somewhat thin, though not haggard. It was as if he was once somewhat chubby, but had lost some of that fat over a hard year of travel. His brown hair was clean but unkempt, as if he couldn't be bothered to mind it.

"You, aren't…weren't you Renault's little friend?" Khyron said, with a mixture of amusement and (very) slight distaste. "What was your name, Seraphim, Sarah…"

"Serapino, m'lord!" he chirped merrily. "I'm sure glad to see you! The Bishop of Nerinheit—he was just reinstated, y'know—told me to expect you, and that I had to come meet you as soon as you arrived!" He looked down. "But…but I'm still new to this city, and, um, I sort of…got lost." He brightened up as he looked at his companion, who had caught up to him. "Elimine's favors were upon me, though, 'cause I was blessed by this kindhearted rescuer! I ran into him and he happened to know where the docks were! Or…remembered where they were. I'm so grateful! To both of you, m'lords!"

The gentleman laughed bashfully and brought a hand to scratch the back of his head. "That's…a little too much, friend. I'm not a devout believer, but I just thought you needed some help and wanted to provide. We travelers have to look out for one another, after all."

"Indeed?" Khyron glanced at this second man. He didn't seem to be lying, as he was outfitted as a traveler might conceivably be. However, he did not look like any traveler Khyron had yet seen. It wasn't because he was dressed strangely—thick brown leather boots and traveling pants below a weathered white doubloon with cheap copper buttons. He also seemed as if he might have been Bernese, for his skin was a bit more tan than Khyron's (not as dark as Dougram's had been, though), and he was wearing a traveler's rucksack. In his right hand he carried an odd case the type of which Khyron had never seen before. That wasn't the oddest thing about him. No, what really marked him out was his _height. _This traveler was tall. Very tall. He would have come just up to Braddock's chest, which meant he was a head taller than the Mage General. He was nowhere near as muscular as Braddock was, but he wasn't frail either; his frame and the way he carried himself made it seem as if he could have been a Swordmaster.

Rather suspicious, all in all, yet for some reason Khyron couldn't bring himself to distrust this man. It was his face. This fellow seemed as if he could have been an older version of Renault. He was clean-shaven, with an angular nose and prominent cheekbones, yet his face wasn't wrinkled at all—only his bushy grey eyebrows indicated his age. His short grey hair was just barely visible underneath the wide-brimmed hat which kept the afternoon sun out of his eyes. Those eyes were calm, warm, and hazel, twinkling with an inner light that seemed to match the reassuring smile on his face.

"Indeed, indeed," he laughed, and then he bowed. "I travel a lot, m'lord. In fact, I make my living as a wandering musician, as you might be able to tell from this!" He opened up the case he was carrying, revealing a strange six-stringed instrument his audience recognized as a guitar.

"A guitar?" asked Khyron, his suspicions reappearing. "Are you a Bernite?"

"No, no. I was actually born and raised in Aquleia. I just happened to take a liking to Bern's music as a youth and never quite lost it. My name's as Etrurian as your blood, Lord Khyron. Call me Levin!"

"Levin? A bard named Levin?" Wayland brought a hand up to his chin thoughtfully. "That's a very fitting name. One of the oldest surviving histories from the Scouring speaks of a prince called Levin, who lived on a land separated from Elibe by a gate crossing space and time. It's said he lived as bard for some time before taking the throne."

Levin was quite surprised by Wayland's display of knowledge, and as it turned out, Khyron and Barim were as well. "Exactly right, lad! I thought you were a Paladin by the looks of you, but you're well versed in the ancient texts. Are you a Sage?"

"Not at all," came his reply, smiling genuinely. "I'm actually Wayland, the Knight General. I almost wasn't, though. When I grew up I wanted to be a historian. I didn't come from a rich family, though, and I didn't have any magic talent, so none of the great academies in Aquleia would take me. I managed to get myself apprenticed to a priest, though, and he had a really great collection of books." His expression grew a bit sad. "Wasn't much time for that when the war came, though. I was drafted, and it turned out I was as good with horses and blades as I was with books. So here I am."

"Aye, war," said Levin, sympathy on his face. "Never an age where it wasn't a terrible thing. But—ah! You're a knight general! Forgive me, Lord!" He bent down to one knee. "I meant no disrespect."

"Don't worry about it."

Barim, who had been listening to Wayland's story intently, now saw fit to speak. "Wayland, I never knew you were a scholar of the ancient texts as well. Did you know Khyron's brother, Exedol?"

"The former mage general? I wish I did, but not personally. I've read some of his translations before the war, though." He nodded to Khyron, swelling with pride. "Your brother was truly a great man."

"You…ah, out of curiosity," began Barim, and there was almost something that might have been called hope in his voice, "you've never read his translation of _Amuro's Lament_, have you?"

"I have, actually!"

"Really?! Wonderful!" Everyone in the vicinity was taken aback by the sudden enthusiasm in Barim's voice. "Dragon's blood, what a blessing! There's been no-one I could talk good books with for ages, not since Exedol died!"

"Hah-ha! I thought I was the only man in miles with an appreciation for the classics!" Grinning as widely as Khyron had ever seen him, Wayland clapped Barim on the back. "You can read High Imperial too, right? What did you think of Exedol's translation? I can understand a bit of it, but not enough to judge. Was his choice of a country dialect for Amuro accurate?"

Barim was about to respond before Khyron cut him off. "I'm glad you two found each other, but we've also responsibilities to attend to. You can discuss your books later." He turned back to Levin. "The Church assigned this mendicant to us. You have our thanks for delivering him. Now, Serapino, what is it the Church needs from me? Are you to give us Elimine's blessings before we set forth?" A note of irritation entered into Khyron's voice. "Surely the Bishop himself would have come to see us! An Expeditionary Force like this deserves a more proper send-off than something from a no-name mendicant!"

"Well, um actually, Lord Khyron," Serapino stammered, aware he was being insulted but not dumb enough to make a scene of it, "I was actually supposed to give you this!"

"Give me what?"

"Oh, um…" Serapino began fumbling around in his robes, growing ever more frantic when he saw he couldn't find it. "Oh, no…oh, no! Where did I put it! Oh God, help me! That was such an expensive artifact! Oh, they'll excommunicate me for sure, I know it!"

Levin chuckled warmly. "Again, I'm not devout, but I'm quite sure the Church does not excommunicate its members for honest mistakes. In any case, though, I believe you were looking for this?"

He reached into a pocket and drew out what was indeed an expensive magical artifact. Specifically, it was a scrying crystal, of the sort used by magicians (be they Light, Dark, or Anima-users) to speak with one another across long distances.

Serapino squealed happily. "Yes, yes, that's it, exactly! Oh, you are truly a gift from the Saint! But how did you find it?"

"You dropped it when you bumped into me, my friend."

"Oh, curse my clumsiness! But, ah, thank you, thank you!" He reached out, took the crystal, and presented it to Khyron. "Lord Khyron, this crystal ball is bound to His Excellency Archbishop Gosterro himself!"

"I see—wait, _wait!_ Did you say the Archbishop himself?!"

Serapino nodded proudly. "His Holiness says it's absolutely _imperative_ that your quest meets with success, and the Red Shoulders are suppressed. He's very concerned for your well-being! So he wants to keep an eye on you at all times!"

"I'm…very grateful for his concern," said Wayland skeptically, "but is he offering anything to us besides surveillance? Money, men, supplies…anything?"

"Hmm, that's, uh…" Serapino shuffled his feet. "I…actually don't think so."

It seemed as if Wayland would have said something sarcastic in response, but Khyron cut him off. "Remember, Knight General, this is our fight, not the Church's. It may have been nice to have their assistance, but if their blessings are all they'll give, that is enough. I've triumphed under worse odds with less help before!"

"Alright." Wayland took the crystal ball from Serapino's hands. "Give our thanks to the Church, Serapino. God be with you."

"Ah…wait a moment," said Levin, who hadn't left and had heard the entire conversation. "Serapino…out of curiosity, what are you planning to do now?"

"Huh?" The wandering mendicant blinked. "I hadn't thought of that before…I was just told to give this crystal ball to Lord Khyron and go on my way."

"And where would your way be?"

"I want to go where the people need me…there's so much war and violence on the Western Isles. I think God is calling me to go there and spread His love, and alleviate the pain of the people."

Levin chuckled. "It seems you might be in luck, then. Lord Khyron, do you think you could take this young man along with you?"

"What? Take him with us?" Khyron repeated incredulously "Is this an order from the Church?"

"N-no," stammered Serapino. "They didn't say anything about me going anywhere…"

"Then I must refuse. The Western Isles are not fit for a civilian clergyman. We're going to war, not pilgrimage, and will not be able to keep you safe."

"Are you sure?" Levin asked. "This youth has been traveling alone for quite a while, and managed to keep himself safe despite his, er, lack of dexterity. And if he is truly being called by God, who are we to deny his request?"

"We do have more than enough space," said Barim, seeing the wisdom in Levin's words. "Our ships could carry sixty-five hundred men at the most. And this mendicant may prove useful. Tell me, lad, can you use magic?"

"Staves, yes!"

"Light magic?"

"Oh, um…they haven't taught me to use that yet…"

"A pity…it would have come in very handy against the Red Shoulders. Still, another staffman couldn't hurt. I say we take him along, Khyron."

"Well, you were Renault's little friend…and Dougram's, too. You weren't completely useless back then…tch, fine. Come along." Khyron cast a suspicious gaze at Levin. "And you, what are you still doing here!? Why were you even bothering to stick up for this wanderer? Shouldn't you have left a long time ago?"

"Ah…well, that's the thing," said Levin, looking somewhat embarrassed. "See, I actually wanted to go to the Western Isles myself."

"What?! Why?"

"Well, for the same reason young Serapino did. I figured the people there could use a bit of music. God knows they've got enough war as it is. But nobody's willing to take a trip over there, not with the Red Shoulders causing all this chaos. So I was hoping to catch a trip with the only people heading there right now."

"We're supposed to be fighters, not ferrymen," Khyron grumbled. "Must we bring every random misfit we find along with us? And besides, we've never seen you before. How do we know this isn't some nefarious Rebel plot, hmm?"

"That's a good point," said Wayland, "but disguising an agent as an old traveling bard is something I've never heard the Red Shoulders do. Also, most of the rebel die-hards are on the Western Isles. We haven't seen any hidden cells or concealed agents around in weeks. It'd be a good idea to keep this fellow under watch, but I doubt it could do us much harm to do a good deed for a traveler. Besides, a bit of music might go a long way in maintaining our morale."

"Hmm…bah, fine! But keep in mind I'll expect you to compose songs praising my generosity, Sir Bard," grumbled Khyron. Levin grinned and nodded, unsure of whether or not Khyron was being sarcastic (he wasn't). "In any case, we'll set sail on the morrow! Levin, Serapino, get your things ready and your cabins set up on one of the boats. Tell the troops the Mage General's given you passage. Just remember to stay out of our way!"

"Yes, m'lord!" Both Levin and Serapino bowed deeply before heading to one of the nearby ships still docked, leaving Khyron alone with the Knight General and his staff officer.

"Well? What are we standing around for? We've more work to do as well, yes? Let's begin our inspection of the ships and the men before we depart!"

Wayland and Barim heartily agreed. They followed their Mage General to prepare for their journey, certain he would not lead them astray.

_::Linear Notes::_

Not much to say here, except Levin is indeed a reference to FE4 :D And as always, please check out my other fics, The Confessor and Wayward Son, and my blog at gunlord500 dot wordpress dot com! :D


	8. The Ambush

**The Last Red Shoulder**

Chapter 8: The Ambush

Khyron hated being rudely awoken. More than anything in the world, he liked his peaceful sleep. Granted, being in the military for as long as he had, he'd learned to accept being called on at any hour, night or day. That didn't mean he liked it any better, though. He especially didn't like it when he was trying to get a good rest after about two weeks at sea, as part of the fleet launched from Nerinheit, sailing over to Jutes. Thus, it was rather understandable he reacted so negatively to the loud knocks on his cabin door at midnight—and frightened his caller even more than he already was.

"Damn it," growled Khyron, "Damn it! _Damn it! _I'm _coming!_" He angrily tossed his cheap blankets off of his body, got off his bed, stormed to the door and whipped it open with a snarl. "Do you have any idea what time it is? What the devil could you possibly want?"

He wouldn't get an answer immediately. "Eep!" cried his caller, stumbling back and nearly dropping the crystal ball he was holding. Thankfully, his tall, older companion kept a hand to his shoulder and steadied him—if he'd dropped the ball that would have been nothing short of catastrophic.

"Who…Serapino? _Serapino?!_" Khyron grew even angrier. "I _knew_ we shouldn't have taken you along! What could possibly be worth waking me at this hour! If you don't have a good reason for this, boy, you'll be praying to the Saint for much more than forgiveness, I'll tell you that! Churchman or not, you've no right to interfere with a military—"

"Ah, milord," said Levin apologetically, "Respectfully, I'd suggest this is important. I was having quite a nice sleep myself before Serapino woke me up with quite a bit of distress. Something happened with this crystal ball and he thought you _needed_ to know about it."

"That ball? Gosterro's ball?" Both Khyron's anger and his sleepiness began to recede. "Boy, let me see that."

Wordlessly, with his distressed expression still on his face, Serapino handed it over to the Mage General. Khyron examined it intently, and saw that it was glowing faintly. He could also see something moving in its cloudy depths. He heard a voice, not Serapino's, not Levin's not anyone very familiar, nor entirely unknown, but coming from far, far away…

_Khyron…Khyron! Mage General Khyron! For the love of God, respond! Your life is at stake! Elimine, if you can grant me a single prayer for once in my life, then let Khyron hear my message!_

"I'm here," he said tersely. "Who is this?"

"Archbishop Gosterro," came the equally terse reply, now audible to everyone in the area. "Khyron, your fleet is in grave danger."

"A-Archbishop Gosterro?!" Khyron fumbled, taken very much by surprise. He hadn't expected Gosterro to contact him again, honestly, especially not under these circumstances. "Your Excellency, forgive my—"

"We've no time for pleasantries! Khyron, the Red Shoulders are planning an ambush on your fleet."

"What?! Your Holiness, with all due respect, how could you possibly know that?"

"Don't _question_ me, boy! You don't need to know where I get my information. The only thing you need to know is that I have _no_ reason to lie to you, and every reason to see you succeed, and crush those Red Shoulder vermin. Now, listen. Your fleet is passing just over the very northern tip of Fibernia, is not?"

"That's true."

"Well, you can expect an attack very soon. There's a battery of Ballistae set up at the nearby coast, and your ships will be coming just within range. They've armed the artillery with oil-covered bolts, and plan to set them alight with magic once they've fired. Needless to say, they could well burn your entire fleet to ashes before you can even reach Jutes, just as Henken did to them at Aquleia. You must stop them!"

"Accepting you're being honest, we will try, Your Excellency. If I may ask, have you any suggestions as to how to do so?"

Khyron's question was honest, but Gosterro was less than pleased to hear it. "You're the Mage General here! You should—" His voice cut off suddenly, as if he was listening to someone. It was the strangest thing, but Khyron could have sworn he heard a woman's voice just under the Archbishop's. It couldn't be, though. He shook his head and dismissed the silly thought. Just as well, for Gosterro was back with him soon. "The rebels think they can ambush you. Why not ambush them? They won't be expecting an attack, and there are only about ten…no, a dozen ballistae there. They were hoping to set your fleet aflame before you noticed them."

"If you'd given us notice earlier, we might have perhaps avoided them entirely."

"I wasn't able to get this information earlier," Gosterro snapped. "Use your magic to Warp a small team over to the island. I'll guide you to the best location. Sneak up to the ballistae and use your Bolting magic to destroy them from afar."

"In this darkness? In this fog?"

"Your magic will not fail you. At least, not so long as you have my guidance. Now, stop blabbering and get ready! You are the Mage General, are you not?!"

That jab at his pride was enough to get Khyron moving. "Serapino, Levin, make yourselves useful and rouse the fleet. Wake Barim and tell him I want his six best Sages assembled with their Warp staves within ten minutes. I'll have my book and armor equipped by then!

-x-

As usual, Kain sat alone at a desk, scribbling furiously in his journal by the light of a small candle. The differences tonight were that he was in a tent near the very tip of Fibernia, and he had a distinctly worried expression on his face. That expression shifted to a combination of annoyance and relief when, as usual, his best friend interrupted his writing.

"Oy, Kain! 's almost time! Stop with th' books and start with th' plan!"

"I know, Leitner. No need to tell me twice." He promptly put down his pen and equipped his helmet, following his friend outside the tent and into the brisk night air. As the two of them headed towards their destination, Leitner offered him a friendly clap on the back. "What're ya even writin' so much for anyways? Not as if anythin' we're doin' is _that_ interestin', right?"

"I hope not," said Kain gloomily. "At least not 'interesting' in the wrong ways."

"Well, that's what all of us hope," replied Leitner, growing more serious. "An' it looks like th' Royalists will be gettin' an 'interestin'' surprise t'night, eh? So why worry?"

Kain sighed. "Yeah, I guess you're right. I just can't get this…bad feeling out of my head. Like something's gonna go really wrong. Maybe I'm still too superstitious to be a good Red Shoulder."

"Haha! Well, y' fight well enough, so you're fine by me. Anyways, they ought to have set up the artillery by now, and the royalists'll be passin' by any minute. Let's watch the show!"

Kain nodded as they came up to the cliff on which their allies had established a small artillery battery. The rest of Squad Seven was there, accompanied by several native archers. They had set up a half-dozen ballista in this area, overlooking the ocean ahead. There was a barrel of oil next to each of those ballistae, and the archers were holding torches.

The plan was to douse the tips of each ballista bolt in oil, and then light it afire. They would then launch their burning ammunition at the Royalist ships which would be passing by the area quite soon. It was the perfect night for an ambush—there was no fog and the skies were clear and lit by the moon; the Archers would be able to see the ships clearly but the Royalists wouldn't know what hit them until it was too late. The King's dogs would not be expecting an attack, and they would be very vulnerable cooped up on those ships. A well-timed surprise could deal a lot of damage to Khyron's fleet, if not destroy it completely, turning his mighty ships into floating pyres from which there was no escape. They would never reach Jutes, which would make taking the city much easier.

Zalf would be captaining the ballista team, of course, and Kessler could do a little more damage to the ships with his Purge spells. The rest of Squad Seven would be there to deal with any surprises the Royalists had—if they had any. Kain certainly hoped they didn't…

But tonight, those hopes would be dashed.

"I think I see them," said Leitner, peering into the distance. None of them could make out any details, but they could make out the shapes of a group of large ships over the moonlit water. Those had to be the Royalist fleet, and Zalf's eyes were sharp enough that he could hit them in this darkness and at this distance. Once the first fires were set, the other ballisticians would be able to hit the rest of the fleet easily.

Zalf's sharp eyes caught something else, though. "Hm?" He looked up, piquing Kain's attention.

"What is it?"

"I thought I saw a flash of—there!" Zalf pointed upwards, and Kain saw several streaks of light falling from the sky. He might have mistaken them for a meteor shower, but the trajectory was wrong. They fell down onto the land itself, descending without a sound into the darkness some distance away. All of them recognized that—it was Warp magic.

"That's weird," mumbled Leitner contemplatively, "No-one else was s'posed to be arrivin'. I don't think those are our Red Shoulders…c'd they be the Royalists?"

"Couldn't be," said Jann calmly. "They have no idea we're here, and they should be sleeping. It has to be something else."

"Either way, let's check it out." Kain motioned to Leitner. "Get our horses ready, and Jann, Deckham, get ready to ride. Zalf, don't worry about a thing. Just start—"

He was cut off by a sudden tingling in the air around him, just before a thunderbolt slammed down upon one of the ballistae.

"Aghhh!" He stumbled back, shielding his eyes from the light and the burning debris. He heard shouts and yells all around them, but Kassa's voice carried over all of it.

"_Zalf! Get away from the ballistae! Everyone, get down!_"

Instinctively, he followed his friend's advice, diving to the ground and covering his head. Just in time—there was another crack in the air as another thunderbolt fell from the heavens, this time striking one of the oil barrels near a ballista. This resulted in a terrific explosion which might have deafened Kain had he not covered his ears. Many of the archers were not so lucky; he heard them screaming in pain. He could only hope Zalf was all right.

"We've gotta do something," Leitner yelled, "Th' ambush is—" He was drowned out by the sound of another falling thunderbolt, and another, and another. Seven more bolts fell before the chaos finally stopped. When it did, Kain immediately got to his feet and moved to get to his horse…but then saw flashes of light lift off of the ground in the distance, soar into the sky, then descend towards the fleet sailing over the water in front of them, entirely unmolested.

"H…How…" Kain mumbled to himself, gazing back to his friends and the "surprise" they were supposed to have waiting for the Royalists. Zalf was fine, thankfully—he was quick enough to have gotten away from the ballistae before the casks of oil blew, and was only slightly burnt. The other members of Squad Seven were also uninjured. But the ballistae themselves were completely destroyed, and several of the archers had been killed, either struck by the magic or tossed over the cliff by the power of the explosions.

"A mistake," said Jann, completely dazed. "It had to be a mistak…they couldn't have…"

"_Damn it!_ Like hell it was a mistake," Zalf snarled, coughing as he picked himself up. "They knew we were here. They _knew_ we were here!"

"How?" yelled Deckham. "The Royalists have been cut off for months. Where the hell would they get the information?"

"From someone on our side!" Zalf yelled back.

"Oi! Are you calling one of us a traitor?" Jann's voice was angry.

"Enough!" Kessler's voice was calm, but it rang out over everyone else's. "Zalf, don't throw out accusations like that. Those mages knew not only where we were set up but our _exact_ location. Every one of those spells hit their mark. Not even the best Sage could do that in this darkness and from this distance. That's more than something just a traitor could provide.

"Perhaps the Royalists have some spell of scrying that allowed them to ascertain our exact locations. In any case, at this point we cannot allow ourselves to fall on each other when we need to work together the most. Instead, let's discuss what our next move should be."

They all fell quiet as Kessler moved to help the surviving Archers, brandishing his Heal staff, and looked to Kain, their leader, for guidance.

"Guess our ambush didn't work out so well, commander," Zalf growled, staring at him sullenly. "What's your great plan now?"

Kain didn't allow himself to be needled. "It's possible the Royalists were expecting an attack. If they had any familiarity with the area, they'd realize this place was a good spot for setting up artillery. It also could have been scrying, as Kessler said. Either way, this isn't the end of the world. Even with Khyron's reinforcements, they can't hold out against us. Let's get back to the main force and report this to Oldnar. Whatever trick they're using, he'll be able to see through it. Come!"

Groaning and coughing, Squad Seven and their allies fell in line behind their leader, beginning their long, sullen march back to the main Red Shoulder army camp.

Despite Kain's attempt at comforting words, they all got the feeling this would not be the first of their assumed victories to turn into defeat.

And they would be right.

_::Linear Notes::_

Not much to say about this chapter, though I hope the next is more exciting :D


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